


So Anyway, Here's Wonderwall

by fairietailed, themuffintitan



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - College/University, Drinking, Fluff and Angst, Fluffy, Garage Band AU, M/M, Music AU, NB Pidge, PINING KEITH, Piercings, Seasonal, Slow Burn, Smoking, Tattoos, a reason for keith to be super edgy but he's barely edgy anyway???, a shirtless michael can never be defeated, aka the punk band Au no one asked for but we're throwing at you anyway, keith is a bassist and lance is very weak, like real bad pining, please save the boys from their friends, slight blood, some second hand embarrassment here or there, space bois play music for the soul
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-27
Updated: 2017-06-29
Packaged: 2018-07-27 02:08:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 59,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7599277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairietailed/pseuds/fairietailed, https://archiveofourown.org/users/themuffintitan/pseuds/themuffintitan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lance can't seem to look anywhere but Keith as he performs.<br/>He doesn’t bother trying to hear the music over the sound of his own heartbeat in his ears.</p>
<p>--</p>
<p>In which Keith is a bassist and Lance is weak.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Nellie the Elephant

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nellie the Elephant - Toy Dolls

 Lance runs his fingers across his scalp and through his hair again. He’s performed this action more times than he can count on all of his fingers and toes in the last 5 minutes, occasionally blowing an annoyed puff up at his forehead.  He bites his cheek, squinting in concentration at his own reflection and bending over the bathroom sink to stare at himself up close.

_Which way, which way, which way…._

He’s starting to feel anxious. He has to decide which way he’s going to allow his hair to fall. It’s important -- life or death.

Running his fingers through his own locks in alternating directions is almost starting to hurt his arm after so long, though.

He rolls his tongue in his mouth, about to shift angles to try and get a different angle, but he’s startled by a loud pounding on the door to his side.

“Lance, come _on,_ would you hurry up in there?”

The voice coming from the other side of the door is one of Lance’s long time friends and recent new roommate, Pidge. Lance grits his teeth and rolled his eyes, already used to this happening, despite only being a few weeks into living with them.

“No, I’m not coming out yet!” Lance yells, not taking his eyes off of his reflection. He fiddles with a few strands of hair at the front, switching them around and attempting to tuck them in, attempting to make them stay.

Pidge groans from the other side of the door, and from glancing down Lance can see their shadow on the floor under the crack, as if they’re leaning back against the door. He snorts, licking his thumb and swiping his eyebrows.

“Had I known you have the bladder of a squirrel, I wouldn’t’ve stayed with you,” he snarks, receiving an elbow to the door from the other side.

“What an advantage that would’ve been! And that’s not even the case, asshole. My contact rolled up into my eye, I can’t get it out.”

They go silent, as if they’re fiddling with their face even more. Pidge groans again, jiggling the locked doorknob aggressively.

“Stop hogging the mirror!!!” they whine, and Lance, rolling his eyes, reaches to unclick the lock on the door. Pidge immediately comes in, pushing him over and opening their eyelid wider in the mirror. Lance lowers his hands, looking over at them.

“I thought you said you quit with contacts-,” he questions, remembering Pidge in the exact same predicament a few months earlier, and a few more before, and plenty of other incidents as well. “- Like, 5 different times.”

Pidge purses their lips, eyelashes flinching from getting their finger close to their eye and trying to fish the prescription out. Their eye rolls in directions further than should be possible, and Lance averts his eyes back to his own side of the mirror. Pidge plucks the contact out of their eye and yawns, proceeding to pluck the other with much more ease than the last.

“I thought I would be stubborn and try again, but contacts suck. Not sure why I can’t learn that.” Pidge turns away from the counter and flicks the two used contacts into the garbage. They look back up, catching Lance’s eye in the reflection.

“You’ve been messing with the same piece of hair for like, 2 minutes now. What are you even getting ready for?” they ask, leaning back into the wall and crossing their legs. Lance stops, and he can’t tell whether the clenching in his stomach is nerves or excitement.

Allura.

Lance has known her for a while... if you can count sitting next to her in class as “knowing”.

Allura is a pretty, dark skinned girl that sat in front of Lance at the beginning of his freshman year of college. Lance still can’t put his finger on how a lady could be so... charming. She’s like a princess. The way she sits down gracefully, smiles, furrows her eyebrows when she takes notes…

That’s about all he knows. Lance’s stomach sinks whenever he thinks about it. Of course, he had poked a few conversations with her, and she was relatively easy to communicate with, but they never really talked about anything, aside from himself cracking lame jokes just to get a grin out of her. He lived in the moment, only saying things relevant to where he stood.

But due to a certain _moment_ he decided to participate in, he’s now breathing onto (and fogging up) the mirror because his hair just needs to sit in the right direction. His weird attraction, yet not quite crush, for Allura was what dragged him into this, he thinks.

“Allura, uh, is going to a friend’s party and I decided to tag along with,” he says, trying not to mumble. He’d felt confident when he had first asked to join in on a party he didn’t think he was invited to, but with Pidge staring at him from the reflection in the mirror he now definitely thinks otherwise.

Maybe his nerves were just coming from trying to impress Allura.

What did his hair matter? Lance looks good any way, and he knows it. He lowers his arms and straightens his posture again, getting a checklist of his full body appearance.

Lance’s eyes avert to Pidge in the background, aware of their presence and… eerie silence. He stares back at them, pulling at his ear awkwardly. He stays put, knowing he can’t finish in the bathroom with them in the room.

Pidge raises their eyebrows before sighing dramatically.

“Alright, whatever, I’ll leave. Have fun at the college party, loverboy,” Pidge says, waving. They stop for a moment before they leave, though.

“How well do you know Allura anyway?”

Lance’s breath is squeezed out of him, but he bounces back, quickly gaining confidence with a single mantra replaying in his head.

_College. A College party. His first one._

_And he’s going with a nice chick._

He takes a quick breath, puffing his chest out in the mirror, grinning. He would be fine.

“She’s an… acquaintance.”

Pidge puckers their lips at the side of their mouth and hums in what sounds like neither approval nor disapproval. It’s more awareness, a mental checklist, an “I don’t care” or an “I lost interest.”

They walk off. Once Lance knows Pidge couldn’t see far enough into the bathroom without their glasses, he gives his own reflection a pair of finger pistols and winks.

He feels pretty dang good. A strand of hair falls down across his forehead, and with every fiber of his being Lance tries not to mess with it again for twenty minutes. He takes one last look before he hears Pidge call something out about a car being in the driveway.

Lance probably could’ve jumped up and clicked his heels together. He’s ready for this party. While he makes his way down the step with his hand squeaking on the railing, he realizes that this is definitely the first party he’s ever been to that wasn’t a big family party. He flips his collar down and heads out the entrance, yelling goodbye as if he were back at home with his family.

“Later Pidge! Tell Hunk I’m gone when he gets back,” he yells, getting a long “yep” from across the living room close to the door. Pidge doesn’t even look up from the cell phone they’re on, but makes sure to give a confirmation thumbs up. Lance swings the door open and steps out, kicking it back across it’s hinges and letting it click in place.

_You can do this Lance,_ he thinks to himself, holding his breath and trying his best to act casual.

He pulls out his phone and pretends to turn it on, looking at it like he had more important things to do and was just skipping out on them for a party. He has to give it his all to keep himself from grinning. He keeps his eyes glued to his feet and his phone, making his way around the front of the car and over to the passenger side. He reaches for the handle-

The window rolls down.

But… Allura is driving, isn’t she? He looks up, and there’s Allura in the driver’s seat, smiling at him, but someone else sits in the passenger seat.

His stomach sinks. He could throw up right through the open car window.

“Hey Lance! I was afraid this wasn’t your house,” she laughs, leaning over the steering wheel, her smile wide enough to make her squint.

Lance replied with an awkward mumble, looking at the other _guy_ in the car, trying to identify him but only concluding that he’s never seen whoever-this-is before in his life.

The guy looks pretty scary, with thick eyebrows, a build almost incomparable to his own, and a bleached tuft of hair right above his forehead. The guy’s gaze doesn’t break from Lance’s, and Lance feels as though if a bird flew through their awkward eye contact, it would explode from the tension.

He feels himself start to sweat in the dude’s presence. He feels like he should ran back inside, feeling as though he’s made a huge, huge mistake, but he looks back up at Allura instead, waiting for an introduction. The guy turns to her as well, probably expecting the same.

Allura motions towards the man in the passenger seat.

“Lance, this is my boyfriend, Shiro.” She giggles, and so-called Shiro turns back to face Lance.

Lance expects a cold glare after getting a good look at the rest of Shiro’s face and get-up, but he receives the total opposite. He gets a smile that could melt snow, and probably bring puppies back to life. Shiro sticks his arm through the window for a handshake.

“Nice to meet ya, Lance,” he greets, and Lance makes sure to give him a firm handshake back. Lance keeps his face as neutral as possible, cracking a small smile to look polite, but the voice in his thoughts is more dramatically falling to the floor and groaning in agony.

_I can’t be jealous of him, or afraid of him. He’s a nice guy... shit._

Lance barely registers himself mumbling a “nice to meet you too”, the only thoughts running through his mind blank slates of shock and misunderstanding as he walks around the perimeter of the car to settle in the back seat, preparing for a completely different ride than he expected. 

His high spirits from earlier are gone, but he’s too far in to go back now.

Allura peeks back through the rearview mirror as she grips the gearshift and reverses out of the driveway. Lance has an elbow resting on the car door, holding his chin up with his hand, trying his hardest not to glance into the side mirrors and get glimpses of Shiro’s face.

He looks through the side mirror, getting a perfect angle of Shiro, his jawline still looking indestructible even while giving Allura some embarrassingly longing look of affection without her even knowing.

Lance furrows his eyebrows in... jealousy? Envy? He can’t even tell.

Allura was never his from the start. And of course her boyfriend had to be some unbeatable greek god with the heart of a puppy.

He pouts, looking back out the window. He figures he may as well give up on Allura dating him, then.

“So, Lance, what kind of music do you listen to?” Allura asks from the front seat, not looking away from the road. Lance perks up a bit, shrugging his shoulders. Small talk. This entire night was going to drain him, he knows it.

“Well, our friend’s band is actually playing at the party tonight! They’re really talented!” she calls back to him. “It’s really cool that you’re interested.”

Lance lifts his head up from off of his chin and gives her a small smile. At least it made her happy.

“Hmm… let’s see,” she sifts through her thoughts, tapping all of her nails on the steering wheel in concentration. “Have you ever listened to Toy Dolls before?”

The name doesn’t register in Lance’s memory, and he shakes his head no. But Allura bounces excitedly in the driver’s seat anyway, pointing towards a case full of CDs that Shiro is already flipping through.

“Yeah, yeah, play the one, Shiro, you know which one,” she says, practically squealing with excitement.

Shiro laughs, going pink in the cheeks, replying with “yeah yeah”s while searching through the disks.

Once Shiro finds whichever CD Allura is so excited to listen to he pops it into the car stereo, skipping through the tracks. Allura peeks back at Lance in the rearview mirror again, smiling with excitement and waiting to see his face.

“This is kind of what our friend’s band sounds like, but they have more of a variety of things. This song is called ‘Nellie the Elephant,’” she announces, and Lance cocks his eyebrow in even more confusion.

“The children’s song?” Lance asks, and Allura and Shiro laugh from the front seat. He suddenly feels very out of the loop.

“Sort of,” is all Allura says before Shiro hits the play button, and the sound of a single electric guitar dances through the car speakers.

The sound of a man with a very thick English accent starts the song, low and deliberate. Lance pays close attention, trying to guess what genre this song might fall under. He watches Shiro and Allura look at each other with sparks of excitement in their eyes, both singing a particularly long note along with a chorus of a crowd in the background of the song, progressively getting louder, Lance’s nerves progressively getting more intense.

Suddenly bass and drums and guitar kick in out of nowhere, Allura reaching to turn the volume up on her car speakers, both her and Shiro singing with quick voices in unison, bobbing their heads to the lyrics. They’re in perfect unison, banging their hands on the dashboard in time with the music, jumping up and down in their seats.

Lance, meanwhile, nearly has a heart attack. The song hits him like a sudden thunderstorm, the music being nearly the exact opposite of what he thought someone like Allura might listen to.

He had never considered that the party might be a punk show. Shiro and Allura look like they’re having fun already, entirely in their element, dancing and singing along to a song they know like the back of their hands. Lance, on the other hand, can only picture the song played through loudspeakers in a place that he doesn’t know surrounded by people he’s never met who all know the lyrics, the scene, and each other.

He was going to stand out.

He didn’t belong at this party. He really has no idea what he’s getting himself into.

And as he sits through the car ride, he wonders what the outcome of this will be.

* * *

 

When they arrive, Lance is tapped on the shoulder by Allura, Shiro standing beside her, awkwardly shifting his fingers so they’re intertwined with hers. Lance can’t fight the fact that on first impression alone, he can already see that Shiro is crazy about her.

“We’re going to go into the kitchen and see what they have there. But most people are going to be in the basement, if you want to head down there -- that’s where the band will be playing.” Allura motions to a set of stairs on the other side of the room, Shiro smiling beside her.

Lance figures he may as well explore for himself, or search for other people, knowing his chances of hanging out with Allura tonight were crushed. He decides to take her advice and head downstairs as soon as she and Shiro make their way to the kitchen.

He shrugs his way through people’s conversations and the spaces between multiple bodies, mumbling “excuse me”s and “sorry”s behind him until he pushes his way through the basement door, ajar and erupting with the sound of louder voices coming from down the stairs.

The basement is crowded, the smell of cigarettes and sweat mixed with pot and alcohol hitting Lance even before he makes it to the bottom of the stairs.

There's more people crammed into the small space than can fit, and for a moment Lance debates turning around and heading back upstairs. But then someone is handing him a beer, grinning as he wipes sweat off of his forehead and thumps Lance on the back.

“Uh, thanks!” He calls out over the sound check of a guitar as the guy who gave him the beer gives him a thumbs up, heading back into the crowd.

He makes his way down the last two steps into the basement, pushing his way through the crowd to the center of the room. It's hot, suffocating, but he pops open the top of his beer and takes a sip as he sways with the group of people buzzing about the upcoming band.

He nearly drops his beer as someone elbows him in the side, cheering as the lights go dim.

A small group of people walk out onto the handcrafted stage, plugging in their instruments and finishing up their tuning. After a few moments of calming the crowd down, the front man leans into the mic, swiping his bangs off of his forehead.

“Hey, what's up? Thanks for making your way down here, hope you enjoy the show.”

The drummer counts out a rhythm with his sticks, and there's half a second of complete silence before the Earth gives out beneath Lance’s feet.

He free falls as the music hits him, sharp and rough and louder than anything he’d ever though he could handle. He can feel the air around him being sucked away, his lungs screaming out for air as he holds his breath and watches as the band members take the leap with him. The room practically explodes with electricity, the walls shaking and the floors quaking as Lance’s heartbeat changing pace to beat in time with the bass as the band picks up the tempo.

The crowd moves around him, cheering and drinking and yelling out lyrics that Lance doesn't know. But he moves anyway, swaying his hips in time with the beat as he bobs his head, the force of the music enough to keep him entertained. It’s unlike anything he’s ever experienced before, and he lets out a cry of excitement as he downs the rest of his beer.

He’s never been to a show quite like this one. The smallest venue he’s ever been to is the House of Blues for some acoustic indie band an ex-girlfriend had enjoyed.

This was nothing like that.

The people around him were wild, full of an energy that Lance had never experienced before. The basement is small enough that there’s hardly any space between people, even with some of them standing on top of stacked boxes and the staircase in the back corner.

A few of them push themselves off of the boxes, flipping out into the crowd of people at the foot of the stage. The front man lets out a cry of approval, fistbumping the crowdsurfing audience members.

Lance laughs, pushing another surfer over his head as he bobs his head along to the music. He watches the band, watches the guitarist bounce around on stage and share the mic with the front man. He watches the drummer, smiling as he twirls his drumsticks before picking the beat up again. And he watches the bassist-

The bassist.

He watches the bassist, nodding along as he plays with the rest of the band. His eyebrows are furrowed, bottom lip jut out in a slight pout, and he flips his head to the side in an attempt to get his bangs out of his eyes.

His fingers seem to dance along the fret of the bass, and he bounces a few times as he repositions himself on the front of the stage, smiling at the front man as they finish up the song.

The crowd cheers, and the bassist pulls a hair tie off of his wrist and throws his hair up into a bun.

Lance is too busy staring to realize that the next song has started.

* * *

The set lasts about a half hour before the band pushes their way through the crowd, climbing out of the basement to join the party upstairs.

Lance is following them before he realizes it, chasing after the bassist with the stupid bun in his hair and the red flannel around his waist.

By the time he gets up the stairs, though, the bassist is nowhere to be found. The party is still going, people scattered through the living room and the kitchen, smoking and drinking as Lance pushes past them, occasionally asking if they’ve seen the band member pass by. They all give different answers, not helping Lance in the least.

One girl answers as she takes another shot.

“I think I saw him go out back?”

A guy that’s taken claim to the entire snack table points in the direction of the floor above them.

“He went upstairs.”

Finally a girl with her boyfriend points in the direction of the garage, smiling.

“Oh, Dylan? The one with the brown hair and the glasses, right? He went into the garage. They’re all smoking out there.”

“Ah, not him,” Lance says. “The one with the flannel, and the long hair.”

“Oh! Keith!” The girl’s face lights up, and the guy frowns. “He’s so nice. Yeah, he went out there, too.”

Lance thanks her, and sets off.

As soon as he opens the garage door he’s hit with the smell of smoke. He waves a hand in front of his face, stepping into the cloud and suppressing the urge to cough. He spots the bassist sitting on the open bed of a truck facing the street, and he makes his way across the garage, skirting along the edge of the opening to the driveway.

“Uh,” he coughs, and the guy looks up. He’s even prettier up close. Lance tries not to choke. “Uh, hi. I just... you did well up there tonight.”

The bassist nods, taking a drag of his cigarette and turning his head to blow the smoke into the open space in front of him.

“Thanks.”

God, his voice is beautiful. Lance nearly faints.

“Of course, dude. I’m-” he holds his hand out, taking a step forward and hoping he’s not making an ass of himself. “I’m Lance.”

“Keith,” the guy says, sticking the end of his cigarette in between his lips as he shakes Lance’s hand. He wears fingerless gloves, and Lance thinks that somehow, they look really cool.

“So do you guys play a lot of parties?”

He's floundering, he knows it, searching for a topic of conversation so that he can talk to this stupidly pretty bass player in hopes of what? Getting a date? The odds of that happening are slim to none.

“Sometimes. My buddy Shiro got us this gig. Normally we just play garage shows and small venues.”

He’s probably got a whole hoard of girls waiting at his doorstep. Why would he focus on Lance?

“Oh I know Shiro! He's dating my friend Allura. We have Econ together at the community college.”

Is he even gay? Or even a little bit bisexual? Because Lance is _very_ bisexual. But in his experience, hot gay bass players in cool punk garage bands in the middle of small backwoods Minnesota towns are few and far between.

“Oh nice! Allura’s pretty cool.” Keith takes another drag of his cigarette. Lance watches the smoke billow out into the driveway.

“She is. She's the one that invited me tonight, actually.”

“Well I guess you're pretty lucky then,” Keith says, putting out the end of his cigarette on the truck bed and sticking the unfinished half behind his ear. 

“Why's that?” Lance asks.

Keith smiles at him, and Lance nearly faints.

“Because you got to see me play.”

In Lance's experience, he's never met a hot gay bass players in a cool punk garage band in the middle of a small backwoods Minnesota town.

But then again, that doesn't mean they don't exist.

“Yeah,” he says, and he smiles back at Keith in excitement. “That’s true.”

He stuffs his hands into his pockets, clearing his throat as he works up the nerve to ask Keith out. He's cut off, though, before he can.

“Keith!”

The front man of Keith’s band calls out across the garage, half his torso hanging out of the open door to the house. Keith nods in his direction.

“We’re loading up the van. You ready?”

“Yeah,” he calls back. “Give me a second.”

The guy’s torso disappears, and Keith turns back to Lance. He begins walking backwards, shoving his hands into his own pockets and smiling.

“It was cool meeting you. I'll see you later, yeah?”

Lance chokes, cursing terrible timing and the universe itself.

“Yeah! Yeah, I'll see you later.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we blame the group chat. and also, we blame the image of bassist keith.  
> keith has everyone's heart stopping and it's... too much
> 
> Maddy ( fairitailed ) - wrote the second half, from when Lance enters the basement to the end.  
> Muffin ( themuffintitan ) - wrote from the beginning to when Lance enters the basement.  
> JJ (@fluffy-klance on Tumblr) did the amazing art of Keith!! 
> 
> wish us luck in hell there is too much the two of us have planned for this fic  
> welcome to hell yall <3


	2. Kids of the Black Hole

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kids of the Black Hole - Adolescents

“So you just let him leave?!”

Lance froze, a spoonful of Fruit Loops halfway to his mouth. He looked around, seeming confused.

“Uh... Yes?”

“Why would you do that?!”

Hunk holds his own spoon in the air above his bowl as he leans against the counter, his expression just as confused as Lance’s. Pidge grabs an apple out of a bowl on the counter as they take a seat on a barstool beside Lance, shaking their head.

“Seriously. You spend all night pining for this guy and them you just let him leave?”

“What was I supposed to do?!” Lance cries, dropping his spoon into his bowl. Some of the milk spills out onto the counter. Pidge shrugs as they pass Lance a napkin.

“Ask him on a date? Stop him before he goes to pack up the van? Hell, you could have even gone and _helped_ him pack up the van,” they roll their eyes, scrolling through their phone and taking a bite of their apple. “Honestly, this is like a terrible retelling of Cinderella.”

“Doesn't that make Lance the Prince?” Hunk snorts, and Pidge lets out a laugh of their own.

“You're right, nevermind. It's like a reverse retelling, then.”

“Joke’s on you,” Lance mutters, balling up his napkin and aiming a shot at the trashcan across the room. “I’d look great in that dress.”

He tosses the napkin, and misses completely.

“So what are you gonna do then, Cinderella?” Pidge asks, not looking up from their phone. “You gonna let the Prince hunt you down? Or are you gonna hike up your dress and search for him yourself?”

Lance narrows his eyes.

“This isn't some fairy tale, Pidge. I can't just take out a glass slipper and ask if anyone's seen who it belongs to.”

“First of all,” Pidge says, “the Prince uses the glass slipper. Not the princess. Secondly, you know his name. You know his band. You know his friends. You can literally just ask Allura where he’ll be playing next and go watch him play. And you can actually _talk_ to him this time.”

Lance opens his mouth to protest, but is cut off by Hunk.

“Yeah dude. Pidge is right. You gotta man up.”

“Hunk!”

His roommate only shrugs, finishing the last of his cereal and putting the bowl in the sink.

“Just text Allura and ask her where his next show is going to be. It’s not that bad.”

“Will you come with me?”

Both Hunk and  Pidge laugh, nearly simultaneously.

“Not even if you paid us, dude. No way.”

* * *

 **Lance** **[11:34 A.M.]**

**> Hey! Thanks for letting me come with you guys the other night. I had a really great time.**

 

 **Allura** **[11:36 A.M.]**

**> Lance! I’m so glad that you had a good time. Shiro said that you talked to Keith, as well! I’m glad you enjoyed his band.**

 

 **Lance** **[11:45 A.M.]**

**> Oh yeah! Keith was cool.**

**> *they were cool**

**> Keith’s band I mean**

**> I liked Keith’s band**

**> Do they play often?**

 

 **Allura** **[11:47 A.M.]**

**> Yeah! They like playing house parties and stuff. They’re actually playing one this Friday at their guitarist’s house, if you wanna come? (:**

 

 **Lance** **[11:47 A.M.]**

**> Oh**

**> I’ll have to see what I’m up to on Friday**

**> What time is it**

**> Where’s it at**

**> Keith will be there, yeah?**

**> Wait, of course he would. It’s his band. Haha..**

**> Anyway**

**> Yeah.**

**> I’ll go.**

 

 **Allura** **[11:53 A.M.]**

**> Shiro and I are going at around 8 or 9. I’ll let you know when we’re outside. (:**

 

 **Lance** **[11:55 A.M.]**

**> ... Thanks.**

 

* * *

Cue round 2.

Cue Lance in front of the bathroom mirror for a second time; Pidge banging loudly on the door in demand for time to do their hair before their _own_ date that night, Lance yelling back that his hair was far more important.

“It needs to look just the right amount of disheveled!” He calls, and hears Pidge huff in exasperation from the hallway.

“Why, so that you can look as pretentious as you act?!”

Lance clicks his tongue, pushing a part of his hair to the side. “Now that’s just hurtful, Pidge.”

He finally feels satisfied, nodding to his own reflection and pushing off of the sink to open the door. As soon as it’s open Pidge pushes their way through, grumbling about bad roommates and how Hunk would never treat them this way.

Lance calls out behind him, reminding Pidge that Hunk would never mistreat anyone _ever_ , and that he is definitely _not_ Hunk, and that he will be back later. He hears Pidge yell out a reply from behind him, but he’s already halfway through the door and doesn’t quite catch it.

He’s in Allura’s car not even a minute later, crammed into the back seat and bobbing his head along to an Adolescents song as they drive downtown, pulling into a crowded driveway and making their way inside.

This party is just as full as the last one -- people sipping on beers and talking over the music blaring through the speakers in the livingroom. Lance makes his way to the table with the drinks, determined to get at least a bit tipsy before working up the courage to ask out Keith after he’s done playing.

The universe, however, seems to have other plans.

“Lance!”

He looks up at the mention of his name, locking eyes with the one person he had hoped to put off seeing until the end of the night.

“Keith!”

“Hey,” he says, smiling and nodding his head at Lance from across the drinks table. “What’s up?”

“Oh!” Lance scrambles for a cup, grabbing the first bottle he could reach and filling the cup nearly halfway. “Nothing. Getting a drink.”

He hesitantly takes a sip of his drink. It’s straight vodka.

He resists the urge to spasm as it goes down, burning the back of his throat and making his eyes water.

Keith’s eyes widen a bit at the amount of alcohol in Lance’s cup, and the corner of his lips quirk upward. “That’s quite a bit. You gonna add anything to counter it?”

“Of course,” Lance says, cheeks heating up under Keith’s gaze. He grabs a carton of orange juice, filling the rest of the cup. He takes another sip. It tastes a bit less like rubbing alcohol, and more like orange slices dipped _into_ rubbing alcohol. He suppresses a cough.

“So,” he chokes out, clearing his throat and hoping the watering of his eyes isn’t as visible as he thinks it may be, “are you guys gonna play tonight?”

“Yeah,” Keith says, taking a sip of his own drink. It’s a Mike’s Hard Lemonade. Lance curses himself, wishing he could have grabbed one of those instead. “We’re playing out back later. Jordan’s backyard is pretty huge and his neighbors don’t really care about the noise, so it works out pretty sweet.”

“Do you have a lot of your shows here, then?” Lance asks, taking another hesitant sip of his drink. He allows his eye to twitch, hoping Keith misses it.

Keith shakes his head. “His parents aren’t big fans of the crowd. But they’re gone this weekend so he figured now was probably a good opportunity.”

“Oh, cool!” Lance says, and he curses himself again for his lack of interesting conversation dialogue.

Keith doesn’t seem to mind, though, as he sips on his drink, looking at Lance over the rim of his cup. Lance shifts his weight a bit, trying to not draw attention to the fact that he’s slowly but surely attempting to move to the other side of the table to stand next to Keith. If the other boy notices, he doesn’t mention anything. Instead he raises an eyebrow, humming a bit as he thinks of a question to ask.

“So did you come with Allura and Shiro?”

“Yeah!” Lance answers much too quickly, and he curses himself a third time for his overenthusiasm. “Yeah. I wasn’t sure if I was gonna make it, or anything, because I was invited to a bunch of other parties, too. But, uh, I decided to come to this one.”

He thinks he catches the corner of Keith’s lips twitch upward, but they’re covered by the rim of his cup almost immediately. “Oh, is that so?”

“Yeah, it is,” Lance says, clearing his throat. Naturally it was a bold-faced lie, and he wasn’t entirely sure why _this_ was the lie he was going with, but it was out there and it wasn’t like he could just take it back. So he pushes forward, leaning against the wall beside Keith. “I go to parties all the time. Like, every weekend. I’m everywhere, man.”

_Seriously?_

He curses himself a fourth time.

He thinks he senses a pattern.

But Keith only hums again, leaning against the wall next to Lance and looking at him from out of the corner of his eye. “That sounds like quite a busy schedule.”

“It is,” Lance says without thinking. “But your band is really good, so I like coming to your shows more than I do other parties.”

Keith smiles, and Lance nearly falls over.

“I’m glad,” Keith says, taking another sip of his drink. “That means you’ll be less likely to shoot me down.”

Lance chokes a bit on his drink. “What was that?”

Keith shrugs. “I mean, I was hoping you were going to stay for tonight’s show, and I was going to ask if you wanted to come to our next one, too. But if you’re already interested, then I guess it means you’re less likely to tell me you can’t come.” He turns to Lance, a crooked grin on his face.

“Y-yeah!” Lance stammers, trying to feign casualty and failing miserably. “Sure. I’ll come to your next show.”

“Great,” Keith says. He picks up a Sharpie off of the table next to a stack of cups, setting his own next to the lined up bottles of alcohol. Lance faintly wonders if we was supposed to write his name on his cup or something.

Keith takes his hand, holding it palm-up and sticking the Sharpie cap between his teeth, pulling. The lid pops off, and he scribbles his phone number onto Lance’s hand.

“Here’s my number,” he says around the cap still stuck between his teeth. “Text me yours and I’ll let you know the next time we play.”

Lance only nods dumbly as Keith puts the cap back on the pen and sticks it behind his ear, backing away and smiling.

“Cool,” Lance hears him say before he turns around, disappearing into the crowd heading to the backyard for the show.

* * *

He can't seem to look anywhere but Keith as he performs, and he doesn’t bother trying to hear the music over the sound of his own heartbeat in his ears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was written by Maddy (@fairietailed)
> 
> This is more of a transitional chapter than anything. We have so much mapped out for this AU already, and we're so excited to share it! Thank you so much for reading (:


	3. Dig That Groove, Baby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dig That Groove, Baby - Toy Dolls
> 
> Jeez, the two of us have checked our emails and have gotten floods of tons of sweet comments and because of that we got super excited and went super ahead of ourselves, and chapter three ended up becoming half the fic, lol. Enjoy round three!! It's a bit fluffy hahaha

Lance lays on his bed, all four of his limbs wrapped around a pillow, squashing it with all of his weight as he stares at his phone screen and prays his heart doesn’t shoot out from his chest and through the pillow.

He’s been curled up in bed for almost 30 minutes, his eyes shifting from his upward facing palm graffitied with a familiar phone number and an empty text conversation beaconing from the smartphone. He tries to slow his breathing by essentially smothering the bottom half of his face into the blankets, but he fails, only causing his heart to pound faster.

He can’t decide what to do; Keith is… kind of a big thing? Right? He has fans -- what if he gave his number to all of his fans? He may not an ultra celebrity, but his band is still decently popular. What if his phone is already being blown up all the time?

Lance squints his eyes and practically feels sweat bead on the sides of his face, and a little on his palms as well, but he refuses to wipe his hands on his pants. Or anywhere, at that.

After Keith had left his line of sight and went off to play last night, he had felt hyper-aware of his hand for the rest of the party. He held wet solo cups in the opposite hand, never clutching his own palm closed -- Lance had gotten his hands wet after returning home and washing his hands in the restroom, and proceeded to hitch his breath and race across the kitchen to dab the ink with a dry paper towel, praying under his breath he would still be able to make out the numbers. He knew he had gotten a chance to get to know Keith better, and he wasn’t about to lose it.

But in the few minutes he decided he would finally text Keith, he kept shaking his head in embarrassment, wondering what would be casual enough to say in a first text.

Could he just ask for the next concert date flat out? He curls his toes in a minor cringe, feeling as though he’s being too clingy. He glances back and forth between the slightly faded Sharpie marks and the numbers on his phone screen. He’s almost positive he had read the handwriting correctly, that the number shining on his screen in the “Send To:” box is accurate to what Keith originally wrote.

He quadruple checks it, reading off the numbers and comparing them to his palm. He holds his breath, pinching his nose and trying to think of ways this could go right instead of wrong.

Coming from across the house, Hunk strolls through the hallway, humming and holding a set of folded towels under his arm, making his way to place them in the hallway closet. He stops mid-door frame and looks in at Lance’s back, facing the doorway.

“Did that Keith guy answer you yet?” he asks, and all of the tension Lance created releases when he jumps and nearly throws his phone across the room.

He whips his upper body around and scans Hunk from his shoulders to his feet, confirming he is not a threat (read: not Pidge). Lance’s fingers grip the sides of his phone and he holds it close to his chest in a best attempt at trying to casually cover the screen.

“N-no… he hasn’t,” he replies, hoping Hunk doesn’t see through his lie.

Was it really a lie, though? Lance keeps his eyes locked on the on the dresser across from him. He thinks it can’t be a lie if Keith literally hasn’t replied, there was no way he could’ve due to the fact that Lance hadn’t even worked up the courage to send him a text.

Hunk stands in the door frame, still holding the stack of towels on his popped hip, similar to a fair maiden with a laundry basket hunched on her side. Hunk raises his eyebrows, eyelids lowered, staring at Lance for a few seconds.

“You haven’t even messaged him, have you?”  

Lance grits his teeth, tensing up his shoulders and gripping the phone between his fingers even harder than before.

_ Mission failed. We’ll get ‘em next time. _

“I-I-.. nO B-BUT I WILL,” he defends, and Hunk only rolls his eyes. “I… just haven’t gotten around to it, b-but I will, I will you’ll see-” Lance rambles, and Hunk strides off to the other side of the hallway to start placing towels in the closet, continuing the conversation as he does this.

“Come on Lance, it’s not such a big deal. You don’t have to be nervous about it, he gave you his number for a reason, right?” Hunk soothes, but Lance feels stubborn and can’t tear his eyes away from the palm of his hand. There is a little sliver in his mind that feels excited that he basically, technically, almost held hands with Keith when Keith took his to write the long strand of digits. But he also remembers what Keith had told him beforehand.

_ “Here’s my number. Text me yours and I’ll let you know the next time we play.” _

Lance sighs.

“He’s probably just using me to promote his band or something,” he sulks, slouching over his pillow and muffling his voice near the end of his sentence. He rubs the screen with his thumb, desperate to type something but not knowing what. He wonders if texting would be the same as hearing Keith’s pretty voice.

Pidge makes their way up the stairs and into their own bedroom, butting in on the conversation as well.

“I agree. Why would he, a popular bassist who probably has people lined up at the curb wanting to meet him, be flirting with you, Lance,” they snark, and Lance pops his head up, giving his all in making the most butthurt face possible.

“Hey!!”

“I’m just kidding, just kidding, take a dry joke. In all seriousness, just text him Lance, there isn’t much that could go wrong, for some reason you got yet  _ another  _ chance to try and get to know him after you’ve wimped out... what is it,” Pidge motions with their hands and counts their fingers, “Three times now?”

“Two,” Lance grumbles.

“No no, probably more than three, you’ve been sitting there typing and deleting for half an hour. Each time counts as you being a wimp. Don’t be wimp. I don’t wanna hear you sighing in your room because you don’t know how to convey sexual tension,” Pidge teases, and Lance drops his jaw, looking to Hunk, who stood back and was leaning against the doorframe again.

“They only came in here to make fun of me! To be an asshole!!” Lance whines, causing Pidge to snort and beam over at Hunk as well, not even caring that they may get some kind of motherly scolding for it.

“Nah... he’s right, that’s exactly why I came upstairs.” Pidge runs their tongue over their canines, making failed attempts at holding back laughter through their teeth. Hunk gives them both a tired expression, used to their friendly yet incredibly exasperating bickering, and sighs, crossing his arms and doing what he normally does, staying neutral.

“Pidge is right. You need to just man up and send a stupid message.”

“Yeah, don’t be a pusssyyy-”

“But Pidge needs to not be an asshole either.”

Pidge doesn’t protest, but instead nods their head, shrugging their shoulders in agreement.

“Lance, if you’re going to text him, do it now. I don’t want you accidentally washing your hands and tracking water in the kitchen again,” Hunk points at Lance.

Lance bites his bottom lip, not realizing he had left the tile floor soaking wet downstairs. Pidge moseys away to their own room, leaving the conversation unnoticed. Hunk starts to leave the room as well, but pats on the doorway to make sure he has Lance’s full attention before he does so.

Lance turns his head up and he sees Hunk’s famous reassuring-best friend smile, and Lance is convinced all of the butterflies in his stomach were turning into flowers. He suddenly feels more at ease.

“You’ll be fine, it’s just a text message. Go ahead. I’m going to go talk to Shay, good luck,” he waves, leaving Lance alone yet again in his own bedroom, hunched over a pillow and heart stammering. Lance mumbles a “yeah” under his breath, but he is positive Hunk is already too far away to even hear him.

He pulls the phone away from his chest, still eyeing the number and the flashing line where he had yet to type words. He shakes his head and calls himself ridiculous, tapping out the most generic, boring introduction he could think of just to get it out of the way.

 

**Lance [ 9:34 A.M. ]**

**> Hey...is this Keith? It’s Lance.**

 

Lance takes in a deep breath, taps the send button, and exhales slowly through his mouth, lips parting in the shape of an “O”. His finger crawls up to the side of the phone and clicks it asleep, and Lance feels alright, until his eyes widen and he quickly picks the device back up and checks the time. 

_ 9:35 A.M. _

“That’s so early!” he violently whispers to himself, fingers now pulling at the hair on the sides of his head in stress. He panics in his thoughts, heart starting to race even more than before.

Lance drove home with Allura and Shiro only around 11-12 the night before, around after Keith’s band had finished performing. Lance hadn’t bothered to try and search for Keith again, having already felt embarrassed and flustered after freshly receiving Keith’s phone number and drinking what tasted like the end result of a bunch of Florida concentrated oranges having a party, getting too drunk, and hangover puked into his red solo cup. So Lance wasn’t even aware of what time Keith went home.  _ If  _ he went home.

Lance still had yet to learn the extent of some of the parties Allura would take him to. If Keith had gone home super late, he wouldn’t want to wake him up. Lance bites his fingernails and squints his eyes shut, praying Keith wasn’t exhausted and being bothered or-

_ Buzz Buzz _

Lance yelps, afraid to extend his arm to flip his phone over. He can see the light of his alerting screen through the comforter it rested on, well enough to know he received a notification. In the case it was Keith, he didn’t want to keep him waiting.

He picks up his phone again, about to click it on, but it buzzes in his hand a second time, turning the lock screen on by itself. To Lance’s surprise, his heart trips over and falls down a flight of stairs.

 

**Unknown [ 9:36 A.M. ]**

**> morning! :)**

**> yea, it’s keith**

 

The smiley face.  _ The  _ **_smiley_ ** _ face.  _

Lance bites on his lower lip to keep himself from smiling and slaps his own forehead with his hand. He hadn’t been prepared for  _ that _ . No one told him the bassist was both hot  _ and  _ adorable. Lance taps on the number and saves it to his contacts, beginning to type again.

 

**Lance [ 9:37 A.M. ]**

**> Morning!**

**> Uhh…I’m sorry if I woke you up dude, I didn’t realize it was this early!**

 

Lance feels extremely self-aware of how many exclamation points he is using. He feels self conscious, but conversation still continues when he receives yet another reply from Keith.

 

**Keith [ 9:37 A.M. ]**

**> nah, i was already awake**

**> i dont really get much sleep anyways**

 

His emotions dip the slightest as he reads the new words on his screen. He suddenly feels worried, not thinking twice that he may be looking too far into it. Just before Lance thinks Keith isn’t going to send anymore messages, he gets one in the middle of typing something new.

 

**Keith [ 9:38 A.M. ]**

**> idk it’s all good though-**

 

Lance lets out a small sigh, the corner of his mouth curling into a little smile. He holds his thumb on the delete button, catching that his new pen pal was typing again. It takes a few minutes for the short messages that followed to be delivered.

 

**Keith [ 9:40 A.M. ]**

**>..so you still wanna come to the next show at all?**

**> i can give you the details if you want**

**> its during the week, so im hoping you’ll be able to come. unless youre so super crammed with parties on the weekdays too **

 

He is only reading words, but Lance can hear the sarcasm right through the cellular data it took to send Keith’s text messages. He feels almost... sweet, even just knowing he was open enough already to joke around. And all the cutesy messages were coming from the guy with a sleeve of tattoos, space and flowers being a recurring theme, and an industrial piercing on his left ear. Lance bites his lip. He wonders if Keith shows this side to everybody.

 

**Lance [ 9:41 A.M. ]**

**> Definitely.**

**> I mean-**

**> I’ll definitely see about it. I can probably fit you somewhere on my party schedule..**

**> Yeah. Yeah I’m going.**

 

Having nothing else to do is a real advantage when it comes to hanging out with people. Lance cringes, reading the messages he had already sent. Why was he keeping this up?

 

**Keith [ 9:41 A.M. ]**

**> your...party schedule..?**

 

**Lance [ 9:42 A.M. ]**

**> Uhuh, yeah, I’m basically a party animal.**

 

**Keith [ 9:42 A.M. ]**

**> i haven’t even given you the date yet**

**> how else am i going to fit on your huge list of parties if you dont have the date??**

**> unless i was right, you’re just less likely to turn down the offer ;)**

 

Oh yeah. That’s why. It’s a joke. Of course.

 

**Lance [ 9:43 A.M. ]**

**> Hahahahaha yeah I guess so**

 

As long as Lance acted cool in his text messages there was absolutely no way Keith would ever know about the deep shade of vermillion the tips of his ears were slowly turning. 

First it was Allura and her surprising love for metal, and basically everything you wouldn’t suspect on first glance, and now his new grungy bassist friend with gauges was sending him smiley emoticons and being yet again, the opposite of what he would’ve expected. But somehow, Lance finds this newer side of Keith, beyond first impression, makes his stomach churn and his heart flutter even more so.

He catches the little symbol near the bottom of the screen indicating the person on the other end is typing.

_ That’s the pretty bassist,  _ he thinks to himself.  _ That’s who’s typing. The next time I’ll be seeing him. Who gave me his number? That guy. _

Lance sinks down onto his stomach, keeping the text conversation fresh and no longer holding his breath, biting his lip in the midst of holding back a grin.

* * *

 

Keith was right about the date being in the middle of the week. 

The show is at some small house party on a Wednesday, and due to part time jobs or school work having to be done, not as many people showed up as they would’ve on a Friday or a Saturday.

Lance even finds himself driving to the party alone instead of with Allura, as she had her own things to do as well. If it weren’t for Lance being unemployed with nothing else to do aside from sitting bored with his roommates, he probably wouldn’t have made it like plenty of other people due to be at the party.

Parking was easy too, finding a spot just down the street somewhere when his phone indicated the home he was looking for wasn’t far. Lance hopes Keith arrived earlier than he did, because as far as he knew he didn’t know anyone else at this party.

Upon approaching the house, Lance sees the familiar van he had seen Keith pack performance gear and instruments away in not long before. Lance lets out a breath of air he didn’t realize he was holding before. The house is surrounded by fencing from the sides of the house and around the back, a gate complementing the left side near an unravelled garden hose.The garage sits wide open, the inside containing a foldable table being inhabited by two people sharing a conversation over solo cups. Their laughter is faint. Lance can’t make out what is funny.

As usual, the inside of the home is being overwhelmed with the sound of grunge music, probably half-assedly plugged into a speaker from a phone, blaring yet muffled through the walls and hallways in between the back of the house and the front, where Lance stands in the door.  It’s fairly empty in the front half of the house -- Lance doesn’t know if he entered in the right place.

Should he have gone in through the garage? He remembers seeing an open door to the backyard from in there, but Lance didn’t dare walk in on those strangers. He continues through the house, stumbling upon a living room and a kitchen full with conversation, hearing about 4 voices at the same time every second longer he stood. The party is small, but still lively.

Others are consumed in their own conversations, while Lance stuffs his hands in the pockets of his jacket, hunching his shoulders over as if he was covered in a cloak of invisibility. He stumbles through the kitchen to the back door, fully made of glass and curtains pushed to the side, revealing chairs and tables enclosed in the backyard fencing. He gulps, seeing as dozens of more people are standing and dancing and bobbing their heads to music outdoors than indoors. He hadn’t thought about the fact that he would be alone in a sea of people until Keith had finished playing.

_ Finished? _

Lance steps through the sliding door, looking in the corner of the yard to a makeshift stage, holding up four different individuals, one of which he recognized instantly. Long, black messy hair, flannel tied around the waist, and in that moment, fingers plucking at a bass guitar. Lance was missing him play.

He doesn’t want to make a scene, or draw the attention of everyone listening away from the actual band. Lance shuts the door behind him, quietly, as if anyone could hear it over the pounding drums and speakers. He hopes he hasn’t missed much. He knows he was late, but he had also assumed Keith wouldn’t have been playing until later in the night anyway.

His heart picks up speed, trying to keep his eyes on the grass until he sits down in case Keith’s stoic bass player act that he does on stage might make him short of breath. How Keith flips his bangs back, furrows his eyebrows, pouts his lips as if he were in concentration, when really he is only listening to the sound of his own strings rattling lowly and holding the song in a beat. Lance hasn’t even looked up and he’s already in a trance, knowing the slow bassline ringing in his ears is the effect of Keith’s every movement.

Lance pulls a foldable chair from one of the plastic white tables littered with cups and spills of alcohol, sitting backwards with his chest against the metal backside, arms folded, chin resting on his folded hands. He faces the stage, already engulfed in the tune, already washed away in  _ him. _

Everyone else is standing, but Lance doesn’t care. The music may be upbeat and loud, almost pounding in his ears, he may be stuck in the enclosed backyard of someone he doesn’t even know, but the chilly evening and sitting alone, waiting for his new pal to finish up, the setting being created for more talk with Keith keeps him calm and sitting. Heart thudding excitedly and hopefully, yet slowly, watching that pal make-do with talent.

His new attractive, slightly stoic and (Lance coughs once, as if hoping to drown out his own voice in case anyone was reading his thoughts) ... possibly bangable pal.

Lance admires from a distance, watching Keith sway and dip-- but then Keith stops. He turns his head up, stands straight again, eyes aimed at the leader of his group. Yet another song had ended, and Lance was too occupied to notice until the band had quit altogether.

The lead vocalist, standing at the microphone, announces a few things, thanking everyone who came and listened, roll-calling the final song and it’s title. Lance watches Keith look around in the swarm of people, a little less than a straight emotion plastered onto his face. He seems sad. Disappointed, maybe. Keith seems to scan and examine every figure standing around the stage, face not shifting the slightest.

Until he catches Lance’s gaze.

They make eye-contact, and Lance can see the color in Keith’s irises become more vibrant when it clicks -- Lance is here.

Lance smiles, lifting an arm to wave, and surprisingly out of character, Keith returns the smile from across the yard. Not quite as big and toothy, but enough to make his lips curl. But Keith’s eyes, practically radiating with sunshine, said it all. Keith couldn’t wave to him on stage, but Lance knows he notices him, and any of the gloomy vibes he felt from Keith seconds before disappear.

The other bands members have their heads turned towards Keith, waiting for a “ready” from everybody before they begin. Keith gives them a nod, before the shirtless drummer smacks the drumsticks together to create a tempo, and the guitar starts off in a loud, upbeat blaring. The small crowd makes hoots and hollers, Lance even wooing himself.

After being to a few shows, Lance had only ever seen the front man and the guitarist jumping up and down in the midst of the louder, crazier songs. He could never understand how the guitarist never went off beat while he made his fingers dance across the frets, leaping and kicking his legs in the air at the same time, but he would still do it without flaw. He never understood how the vocalist wouldn’t lose his breath after spinning around in circles multiple times in a row, but he still sang and yelled in perfect tune and timing every second of the show.

But Keith?

Keith normally stood down to the side, looking up and giving the occasional smirk at his bandmates, keeping his cool and sliding his fingers along the strings as if he didn’t stand out.

Tonight, though, in this particular performance, Keith started kicking his knees in the air and jumping with them.

Playing with his eyes closed, not as quickly as the guitar, but still without issue. Lance had never assumed Keith could keep such focus while goofing around with the others. Lance had always assumed that was the way the bassist stood, chilled and stilled.

The vocalist breaks into the first lyrics, and Lance catches the first glance. It’s no use trying to focus on the other aspects aside from Keith in the show at this point, and Lance notices Keith beaming at him from the corner of his eye. Lance reacts, still in awe of the bassist’s sudden burst of excitement on the stage for the finale.

Lance throws him a thumbs up, knowing no one is looking back at him over their shoulder from the crowd. Keith doesn’t physically react, looking away as if he wasn’t the first one to be caught staring.

The song continues, vocalist creeping into the bridge, drums banging more intensely and increasing in dynamic, louder, louder. Lance feels his heart thump with the beat. It’s not what he’s used to, but over the last few times he’s attended the shows, he had learned to appreciate this new genre of music. He could probably hum a few of the songs, admittedly.

The chorus hits. Lance’s stomach swirls.

As does Keith’s instrument.

This time, Keith performs a trick by himself instead of in sync with the others, assumingly improvised. He leans forward during the time he doesn’t play, gripping the bottom and the neck of his bass, and forcing it back under his arm, spinning the instrument around on the neck strap in a circle. The action looked similar to a moving conveyor belt. He catches and cradles the bottom of the bass with his right hand, and immediately gets back into playing.

Lance’s eyes? They’re  _ stars. _

And easily enough it doesn’t take Keith’s full attention to get back into the full swing of the music, because as soon as his fingers are moving again, Keith glances back over to Lance’s astonished expression, his look of disbelief, and most importantly, looking _impressed._

He’s glad Lance is watching, and he has to bite his tongue to keep from smiling at him. Lance is gasping like a little kid who had just witnessed magic.

Lance catches that second glance, the second “are you watching?” look, mouth gaping and heart fluttering, hollering from across the yard in excitement. Christ, Lance hopes Keith will do that again. Had Lance come any later, he would’ve missed it. He wouldn’t have gone lightheaded from the sight of Keith smiling at him, him only, he was the only one in this part of the yard. Or…

Lance pondered, tuning out the speakers in his ears. Or… would Keith have done that at all if he hadn't come? Keith had been looking in his direction for the last song multiple times, and when Lance realizes again, he is alone, the only person in the vicinity of the fold-out tables…

Keith had totally spun his bass guitar for him. There was no other possible explanation.

Unless Lance was being self-centered and overthinking because of the pretty boy. “That’s something Pidge would say,” Lance mutters to himself, brushing it off immediately. He couldn’t deny that Keith was looking in his direction. What other time had Keith ever performed a stunt like that, improvised?

Lance can feel his heart stammering, and he covers a squiggly grin behind blushing knuckles, trying to keep himself from giggling. Keith and the others jump and dance during the chorus together, in sync again. Even if Keith hadn’t done that for him, it still makes Lance feel like he’s choking.

20 attractive points awarded to the hot bassist.

Lance leveled up from Fanboy to Low-Key Extreme Fanboy.

35 Crush XP points are given to Lance.

The verses slow down, leaving a guitar/drum solo and for Keith and his front man to nod their heads, gripping their instruments with two hands, grinning from ear to ear and swaying to the beat, awaiting the next build-up. Lance finds his chin is resting in the palm of his hand, transfixed on the band’s movements, feeling his pulse rise and fall with the tempo, the volume. The drums pick up speed, the guitar player readies in a stance, his fingers crawling on the neck of the instrument, swifter and swifter. The vocalist man pushes his glasses up further onto his nose, unhooking the microphone from it’s stand, and Keith?

Keith lets his eyes meet Lance’s before the next chorus begins to overflow and rise up, and he discreetly nods his head, assuring he still has Lance’s attention.

_ “Keep watching.” _

Lance’s reads Keith’s body language, but Keith’s next move wipes Lance’s mind clean.

Keith lifts his bass over his head, neckstrap in an awkward position under his armpit and chin pointed inward towards his chest. The back of the bass rests on Keith’s neck, and it appears as though the position would be uncomfortable, but he stops there. Lance cocks his eyebrows, confused, until he notices Keith’s fingers still moving. Still plucking, still picking. Still sliding, strumming. Keith plays flawlessly without even looking at where his fingers are heading, and Lance can’t breathe.

Lance doesn’t believe this guy is real. There was no way. He was pulling off typical guitar moves with a bass, and not to his surprise, as Keith swings the bass back down to his stomach, playing normally, his dark eyes immediately met Lance’s blues.

Third glance.

Lance could easily be envious, there was no way he could play an instrument, behind his own head for the matter, but the only thing he can feel was audaciousness, and the need to laugh. There’s no use hiding his crimson grin, of course, but he still keeps a hand over the lower half of his face to hide his unbearable snickering at Keith.

_ What a show-off,  _ Lance thinks. He knows Keith is only doing it for him.

His little check-ins to make sure Lance is still watching, the way he bites his lip to keep from smiling when Lance  _ is _ watching -- in awe, of course. The way Keith thinks he’s discreetly getting away with trying to impress him makes Lance smile from ear to ear, squinting his eyes because his cheeks hurt from all the giggling. This latest show felt like a more…. Say… cute Keith than a stoic, bassist Keith. Lance still wonders if Keith was like this before he arrived.

The song concludes with one last, loud, rippling strum of the guitar, the group gathers in front of the little stage going nuts with alcohol in their system, the vocalist setting the mic back on it’s stand.

“Thanks so much for listening in! Hope you had an awesome time,” he thanks, allowing his other band mates to pack up and the crowd to start shuffling in Lance’s direction. Strangers head for the keg near the fencing, coolers full of booze and bowls half-empty with chips and other things. Lance stands up, stepping out of the way in fear of being trampled by a drunk parade.

Lance hadn’t been handed a drink like the last few shows he attended, and without anything to do with his hands, Lance went to grab a plastic cup of his own and lined up to fill it from the keg, checking the stage and the band’s packing progress as he waited. 

After taking a sip of his freshly brimmed cup, Lance winces at the taste. He doesn’t know why, but he expected better than shitty quality from the keg than from the cooler. Stupid idea. He analyzes his surroundings, letting himself swallow the bitter yellow liquid when he spots the familiar face he had been waiting to see for days approach him. Lance lowers his cup, and immediately grins at Keith after he settles down next to him.

“‘Sup show-off,” Lance teases, and Keith immediately turns his head away from him, grinning, already showing signs of rose in his cheeks. Keith runs his fingers through his hair, an embarrassed tick of his.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Keith says, though the blush on his cheeks growing gives him away. Lance smiles.

“Okay, sure. Either way, though, that was super awesome. Where did you learn to do all of that?”

Keith shrugs, tugging on the edge of his beanie and pulling it down a bit farther over his ears. “Saw some guy do it at a show once and decided it was cool. I learned by practicing, mostly.”

Lance hums, taking another sip of his beer and nodding. Keith pours himself a beer and stuffs his spare hand into his pocket, looking over his shoulder at something. Lance attempts to crane his neck to see, but Keith turns back around before he can.

“Do you wanna meet the band?”

* * *

It’s nearly 15 minutes before they make it out to the garage where the rest of the band is. Lance was right about Keith’s band being popular -- they’re stopped every few feet by someone grabbing Keith’s arm or calling his name, telling him how great the show was or asking him where he learned his tricks. Keith answers all of them calmly, but distantly, pushing his way through the crowd and grabbing Lance’s wrist to keep him close as he tows him to the side door.

Lance’s wrist burns with each step they take, and he worries his legs might give out if they stop for longer than a few seconds.

They finally reach the garage door, and Keith pauses as he moves to open it.

“Ah, uh... These guys are cool, don’t worry.”

“I wasn’t, until you just said that,” Lance says, and the corners of Keith’s lips twitch upward a bit.

“That’s not... Okay. You’ll see.”

Lance had no idea what Keith was talking about until he opens the garage door.

The first thing Lance hears is the screech of a chair and someone shouting. The table Lance had spotted when he’d first walked in is overturned, and there are bottles scattered around the floor as a small group of guys shout at each other, two of them looking like they’re fighting.

Lance pauses, but Keith moves forward, tugging him through the doorway. He follows, albeit a bit less willingly than he would have 30 seconds earlier.

The two guys separate, and Lance sees that they aren’t arguing as much as they are wrestling, one of them with a shirt in his hand and the other practically crawling backwards in the back of the bed of the truck parked in the garage to get away from him. He recognizes the drummer, shirtless in the back of the truck, and the frontman huffing with exhaustion at the end of the bed.

“Michael!”

“What!”

“Put your goddamn shirt on!”

“You can’t make me! You’re not my real mom!”

The frontman clicks his tongue, running his hand through his hair to push his bangs off of his face as he throws the t-shirt in his hands at the unwilling drummer. “Fine. Be an ass about it.”

Michael leans against the cab of the truck, grinning in satisfaction. “I will! And you can’t do anything to stop me.”

Lance watches the scene unfold in silence before Keith clears his throat, and the three band members look up, a bit startled. The drummer is the first to recover, a grin breaking out across his face as he pushes himself up onto his knees in the back of the truck bed.

“Keith! My dude! That was fuckin’ sweet tonight!”

Keith smirks, letting go of Lance’s wrist and crossing his arms across his chest. “Yeah, I know.”

“Modest as always,” the guitarist calls from the other side of the truck, and Michael shakes his head.

“He doesn’t have to be! That was nuts! I didn’t even know you could do that. Plus I didn’t even think you liked playing on stage enough to actually do something like that.” Michael catches sight of Lance next to Keith, taking in the small amount of distance between them. His smile falters for half a second before it’s back, and something like realization passes across his face. “Unless-”

“I’m Dylan,” the singer interrupts, holding out a hand for Lance to shake. He seemed to put together whatever Michael had earlier than the drummer did, and didn’t want to say anything about it. Lance shook his hand, slightly confused. “It’s nice to meet you. You are?”

“Lance,” he says, and Dylan smiles. “Nice to meet you too.”

“It’s not often Keith brings people back to hang out,” Dylan admits, nodding in Michael’s direction. “Mostly because of him. That’s Michael, he’s the drummer. He’s also a nudist.”

“Shut up,” Michael calls half-heartedly. He looks at Lance, waving a hand dismissively. “I am  _ not _ a nudist. Dylan just hates when I go around shirtless. He’s jealous of these guns.” He flexes his arms as if to prove his point. Lance takes in the octopus tattoo on his chest, flowing from directly above his heart to the top corner of his shoulder.

Keith snorts. “Sure. Anyway, that guy over in the corner pouting is Jordan, our guitarist.” He looks at Dylan. “What’s he sulking over now?”

“Tara didn’t come tonight,” Dylan says, and Keith hums as if he should have known all along.

“Jordan, say hi,” he says instead, and Jordan nods in Lance’s direction. Lance raises a hand in greeting.

Jordan nods in what seems to be approval, leaning back in his chair until it rests on the back two legs, and he teeters back and forth experimentally for a moment before resting it against the wall of the garage. He uses his hands to push his already-done fauxhawk a bit higher before resting his head against the wall and closing his eyes. Lance assumes he isn’t the talkative type.

He proves him right when he holds a hand out in Dylan’s direction.

“Got it?”

Dylan rolls his eyes, reaching into his back pocket and pulling out a metal cigarette case. “We have guests you know. You could always wait.”

“If he doesn’t like it he can leave,” Jordan shrugs, and Dylan seems to think this an acceptable deal. He pulls out a joint, tossing it in Jordan’s direction. “Thanks.”

Lance watches as Jordan lights it, taking a few hits and offering it in Michael’s direction. The rest of the band declines, including Keith, and Jordan’s face shows the first hints of excitement that Lance has seen all night.

* * *

He stays with the band for almost two hours before the party dies down and everyone decides to leave. Keith walks him down to the end of the driveway at the end of the night, hands stuffed in the pockets of his jacket and a cigarette sticking out of the edge of his beanie, tucked behind his ear. He chews on his bottom lip in thought, and Lance stands quietly and waits for him to speak.

“So, uh,” he begins, clearing his throat and shifting his weight from foot to foot. “So, this was cool.”

“Yeah,” Lance says, his stomach flipping a bit as Keith smiles. “I had a good time.”

“You should- Ah, you should come to the next show too, maybe,” he pauses before his smile grows. “Unless, of course, you have a more important party to go to instead.”

Lance hums, tilting his head back and looking up at the sky. “I’ll tell you a secret.”

“What’s that?”

“I lied,” he says, looking back at Keith. “I’m not really interested in any parties unless you’re there. Or you’re playing at them.”

When he looks back at Keith, he’s practically beaming. At least he is by Keith-standards. Lance takes it as a win.

“Then I’ll text you? I’ll let you know when the next one is,” he says, and Lance nods as he begins to back away from the driveway.

“That sounds cool. Just... Yeah. Just let me know.”

“Okay,” Keith says, watching Lance leave. “I’ll text you, then.”

“Okay,” Lance echoes, turning on his heel and practically skipping back to his car.

Keith watches him until he disappears down the street, unable to wipe his smile from his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first half was written by Muff, the part with the other band members by Maddy.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, and thank you so so much for your comments!!
> 
> Really, the story is only getting started and we're super duper stoked you guys are into it! Thank you for the support!! <3


	4. Keith's a Thief

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Keith's a Thief - Toy Dolls
> 
> Okay so yes, we've centered an ongoing joke around a specific song and honestly you should probably listen to the song [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hm4IYGQvV-E) before reading this chapter to understand just how good this joke is.

Keith hopes that they won’t say anything.

He hopes, as he pulls up to Jordan’s house and parks in the driveway, that they won’t make a big deal out of it. That they won’t focus on the idea of Lance for too long -- that maybe he can get in and out of practice without any problems, and without any mention of last night.

As soon as he steps into Jordan’s shed-converted-practice space, though, he knows there’s no use hoping. All three of their looks tell him that it’s  _ all _ they will be talking about today.

Michael’s grin hits him first, all teeth and sunshine as he pulls Keith in to wrap his arm around his shoulders. “Keith! Keith. My man. My dude. My guy.  _ Keith _ .”

“Ye-”

“KEITH!” He calls louder, shaking Keith by the shoulders. “Why didn’t you tell us you had a boyfriend? Keeeeith!”

Keith struggles to pull himself out from Michael’s grip, looking at Dylan for any signs of help. Dylan just looks back at him, one eyebrow raised.

“I’m a bit hurt that we aren’t important enough to be told when you have a boyfriend, Keith.”

He finally shoves out from beneath Michael’s arm, straightening his beanie and letting out a huff. “Okay  _ mom _ . I’m not dating anyone, so don’t even worry about it.”

“Yeah right,” Jordan says from the couch nearest the door, plucking at his guitar strings absentmindedly. “I don’t think I’ve seen you that happy in years.”

“Let alone happy enough to pull of some of those sick ass moves you were doing,” Michael adds, letting Keith go as he heads to his drumset in the corner. “You were so trying to impress him.”

* * *

“He was not.”

Pidge snorts at Lance from their place at the counter, rolling their eyes and spinning the barstool in Lance’s direction.

“You said he flipped the bass behind his head and started playing  _ backwards _ .”

“So?” Lance asked from the couch, though he knew his ears are turning pink, and he knows his argument doesn’t stand a chance. “Maybe he does that at every show.”

“But not the other two that you went to?” Hunk chimed in from the chair by the TV, and Lance let out a string of gibberish that sounded a lot like an attempt to defend himself.

“I- well. Well it’s just. I- no! No, maybe? Who can say, really, I didn’t see him long enough to- Pidge! Stop looking at me like that!”

“I’ll stop when you admit that you have it bad for this boy,” Pidge says, crossing their legs and propping their elbow up on the counter ledge. “Because all I’m seeing here is a lovesick puppy that doesn’t want to admit that he’s crushing on a grungy band member like teenage girls from the ‘90s crushed on Kurt Cobain.”

“Too soon, Pidge,” Lance says, and Hunk lets out a laugh from his chair.

“Oh, please. You just know I’m right.”

“No you’re not.”

“Yes I am.”

* * *

“No you’re not.”

“Yes I am,” Jordan says. “I am  _ very _ right, as a matter of fact. And you know it. I’ve never seen you use those moves before, and we’ve been playing together for almost 3 years. And I’ve  _ known _ you for 5. You should have seen the way your face lit up when you noticed that guy at the back of the crowd. I don’t think I’ve seen you that excited since-”

“Don’t,” Keith says, and Jordan stops talking, shrugging and pulling his cigarette from the neck of the guitar where he’d stored it, taking a drag before pushing it back between the neck and the strings to keep it there as he tunes.

“Either way,” Dylan says from across the room, “you’ve got it bad.”

“I do not,” Keith says, but he knows that the blush creeping up his neck betrays his words. Michael laughs from his place by the drums.

“Yeah right. Don’t even worry about it, though. He’s crazy for you too.”

“What?”

He answered too quickly, he knows, but he doesn’t care very much as Michael’s grin only grows. “Did you see  _ his _ face as you played? He was practically glowing. There were practically anime-style roses falling at his fucking feet for you, dude. He’s nuts for you.”

“Whatever,” Keith attempts to feign casualty but fails miserably. “I don’t think so.”

“Keep lying to yourself my dude, but you stole that kid’s heart.”

“I what?”

Jordan nods from his place at the couch, and Dylan laughs as he sets up his mic. Michael bounces his knee a few times, letting the bass drum take a few experimental hits before he nods at Keith.

“It’s true. It’s true. You’re a thief.”

“What?”

“Keith’s a thief.”

“Stop that.”

Dylan pipes up from the mic stand. “Keith’s a thief.”

Even Jordan lets out a small “Keith, Keith, Keith’s a thief.”

“Guys-”

“What a fiddler Keith is,” Michael says dramatically, beginning to drum out a tune. “Thinks he won’t get caught.”

“Keith’s a thief,” Dylan chimes in, speaking into the microphone.

“Keith is Keith is Keith’s a thief!” The three of them cry out suddenly, and Jordan picks up pace with his guitar to match Michael’s drums. He plucks the cigarette from his strings, sticking it in his mouth and taking a drag as Dylan yells.

“Keith is Keith is Keith’s a thief, a rip off and a con!!”

“That song is about tax evasion!” Keith yells over the music, but no one seems to be listening.

* * *

“Why aren’t you listening?!”

“Because it’s pointless,” Pidge shrugs, and Hunk nods from his spot in the chair. “You keep repeating yourself, but we all know it’s not true.”

Lance groans, sliding lower on the couch and running his hands down his face.

“He probably doesn’t even like me.”

“Ah, the confession,” Pidge says, and Hunk hums.

“I’m not confessing anything,” Lance says, and Hunk hums again.

“You literally just did my dude.”

“Whether or not I confessed is irrelevant,” Lance says quickly. “Because he probably doesn’t even like me.”

“Shut up, dude, he invited you to three of his shows. Now  _ four _ . He likes you.” Hunk stretches out in the chair, typing out a quick message on his phone before giving a pointed look at Lance.

“But I can’t be  _ sure _ .”

“Then ask him.”

* * *

“You can’t just do that!”

“Yes we can,” Michael says, grin bright and wicked. “And we will. Because you are you are you’re a thief.”

“I’m out of here,” Keith says, standing and picking up his bass as he makes his way to the door. Michael hangs over the edge of his drums, reaching out a hand.

“No, Keith! No! Come back! You’ve already stolen so much, don’t steal our band practice too!”

Keith stops at the door, banging his forehead against the wood a few times before turning around. “Okay. But you have to stop this stupid joke for the rest of practice.”

“Deal,” Michael says, and he, Jordan, and Dylan all cross their hearts simultaneously. Keith’s phone buzzes in his pocket, and he sighs as he pulls it out.

 

**Lance [2:07 P.M.]**

**> Hey (:**

 

Keith smiles before he can stop himself, but shoves his phone back into his pocket at the sound of his bandmates rising “oooohh”s before they pick up right where they left off, instruments falling into perfect sync as they all yell together.

“Keith’s a Keith’s a Keith’s a-”

“Leaving,” Keith says, and kicks open the door before heading for his car. He hears his bandmates laughing and calling out behind him, and he stifles a smile as he stops halfway across the yard. He pulls his phone out, scrolling down to reach Lance’s name and re-reading his message. He types out a response, pocketing his phone and heading back into the shed for practice.

 

**Keith [2:10 P.M.]**

**> Hey you (:**

**> There’s a show Saturday night. Do you wanna come?**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters in one day holy wow! This chapter was written by Maddy
> 
> Thank you for your interest and comments!!!


	5. Nellie the Elephant, Reprise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nellie the Elephant - Toy Dolls ( again )
> 
> Well what do you know, Keith and Lance are becoming friends at indescribable speeds. Lance also is getting close with the band members too.  
> Keith also has a ponytail in this one. Lance feels like he has been slain. Admittedly so do I.  
> Anyway, this is a fun chapter with some build up for.... plenty of stuff, actually. Enjoy!! -Muff

Lance crams his copy of the house keys into his pocket out of habit, assuming the time he returns back will be late enough where Hunk is way past asleep and Pidge is too invested in their laptop to notice someone knocking on the door. In short, he won’t have to sleep in his car again as long as he has a way into the house. He had learned his lesson already after Keith’s second show, coming back so late his roommates basically forgot he inhabited the house. The next morning earned a Pidge laughing so hard they we’re snorting, and Hunk, being a more compassionate friend, apologizing as best he could while stifling his own giggles. Lance decides that’s something he doesn’t want again. 

The rest of the morning progresses in a better direction, as the entire month that follows after that day, and it passes with a bang.

Lance, keys in pocket and hand on the front doorknob, starts himself through the doorway, chilly air already running its fingers through his hair and pinching his cheeks, and pulling at his ears. It’s already early October, and Minnesota temperatures are plummeting down as jackets are being zipped up. The glass of the door nips Lance’s fingertips as he closes it shut and locks it, leaving foggy fingerprints on its area. He puffs out air, already faintly seeing his breath in the atmosphere, just barely.

Lance turns on his heel and heads down the porch, hands balled into fists and stuffed into his pockets. He moves towards an older, beat up car waiting in his driveway. His heart is stumbling, but he has learned to control it a little better, seeing as it wasn’t the first time he was seeing Keith in the driver’s seat, legs perched up on the dashboard, texting patiently until Lance makes it to the car.

Keith doesn’t notice Lance walk around to the passenger seat and jiggle the door handle. He taps the window to alert Keith to unlock the car. Keith jumps, one of his legs falling down before he hits a button on his door, the car clunking. He looks up and recognizes Lance, glancing at his phone before repositioning his feet onto the pedals and putting the phone screen to sleep.

Lance ducks under the car ceiling and climbs in, greeting his friend with a “Hey.”

Keith fiddles with the front mirror, replying with a nervous “Hey,” as well.

Lance’s phone vibrates in his pocket, and Keith noticeably turns his head away from Lance slightly, gritting his teeth. Lance looks at his screen, reading the preview of the text.

 

**Keith [ 10:19 P.M. ]**

**> are you coming? im still outside**

 

Lance raises one eyebrow and snorts. So that’s who Keith was texting. Keith’s cheeks only pinken a tiny bit while he grips the the handle and shifts into reverse, checking his back mirrors. 

“Yeah, well, you were taking a while, I was getting impatient,” Keith replies before Lance can even comment. Lance only laughs, buckling his seatbelt and leaning back into the fabric and resting his elbow on the inner door.

“You missed meeee.”

“Nah, I just would’ve left thirty seconds after had you not jumped in the second you did,” he points at Lance, not peeling his eyes off of the mirrors and the windshield until he was driving down the road. Lance takes it anyway, dropping it, already used to this new routine.

“So where are we going today, Ms. Frizzle?” Lance jokes, locking his hands behind his head. Keith honks his car horn twice in reply, imitating a wimpy school bus horn as he lowers his foot down on the gas, earning another giggle from the brunette. They start down the road and out of Lance’s neighborhood.

“Just some other person named Justin that wanted us at his party,” Keith monotones.

“You don’t know him?”

“Nah, we’re just playing there,” he adds. Lance’s heart sparks. He still loved it when his new friends played. “I just didn’t take the van with them because I had left my bass at home on accident.” Keith points to his instrument sealed up in its case in the back seat. “They’re probably already set up there…” Keith hums in thought.

“Will they be pissed you’re late?”

“I don’t think so. Normally it’s only Jordan who gets pissed at me for stuff like this, if he cares enough to be mad. It’s really funny, actually.”

After a month, Lance had been to quite a few of Keith’s shows, normally driving himself there because the band takes the trips to their shows together in the van. But, he had also found himself climbing into Keith’s old vehicle more often as well, that of which faintly smells of cigarettes and the cheap air freshener hanging from the front mirror.

On those days, Lance and Keith and sometimes the others travelled to parties the band wasn’t even playing at. Those days were comforting; they always made Lance feel like he was part of another group of friends already, getting close with the other members so quickly. Most of the time, though, it was just him and Keith. Lance had most of his share of the entire band when he stuck around after their gigs, getting to know them all better.

Keith, at the first stoplight, fishes the AUX cord from the car floor and quickly hooks his phone up to the ancient car radio. His thumb wanders a taps through his set playlists, eventually filling the car speakers with music Lance still has yet to recognize or know.

It still baffles Lance how big of a world he was missing in this genre of music. Whenever he rides duo with Keith in the car, he feels like he never hears the same song twice. But Keith somehow always knows how the song plays, mouths the lyrics, taps his fingers to the exact tempo. Never really singing along, though.

The two are quiet most of the way there, allowing the music to fill the silence in the car, saving their energy for the show yet to come.

Eventually they pull into the unfamiliar driveway, waving goodbye -- Keith with his bass slung over his shoulder heading to the garage, Lance peacing out and making a beeline into the house and down to the basement where Keith’s band Dazed would be performing. Regardless of how many parties Lance had attended, he still barely knows anyone else aside from Keith and his band. He only ever occasionally runs into Allura or Shiro, anymore.

The basement is much bigger in perimeter. Not so much area, though, the room still jam packed like a human sardine tin. Lance assumes whoever offered this gig was a wealthier fellow.

He spots the band’s travel stage as normal, moseying over and waiting their arrival. Speakers are set up and plugged in, the microphone sitting in it’s stand ominously awaiting it’s performer. Jordan’s Gibson electric guitar rests on the stand, untouched. The band shouldn’t be long, he thinks. He and Keith did arrive a little late as predicted, and knowing Dylan as the leader, he suspected they would be starting ASAP. 

A new detail added to the set up, though, is a pair of stage lights secured onto the ceiling and gleaming to the center of the stage. The basement is relatively hot - hot enough to make Lance peel his jacket off - and he suspects the bright stage lights have plenty to do with the temperature. Lance has already grown used to the excessive amounts of body heat when being surrounded by other fans of the band, and even in October in Minnesota he wants cold water, anything to cool him down.

Soon enough, Dylan, Jordan, Michael (now dressed appropriately in the artificial heat, no shirt, as usual), and Keith file onto the stage, earning a few cheers from the audience around him. Lance hoots along himself by default, feeling more individuals squeeze to the front of the stage where he stands as they invade his personal space. Dylan smiles, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt and grabbing for the microphone, switching it on. In the background, Jordan slips into his guitar strap, Michael spins his drumsticks in his fingers, and Keith, already set up having walked down with his bass on him, looks around the room in search for him like usual.

It doesn’t take long. Keith scans the front row and spots Lance in record time, the corner of his mouth twitching.

Dylan greets the audience causally, announcing the song name after everyone is comfortable and settled. He pushes his black frames up like usual, Michael smacking his sticks together in a tempo, all four of them joining together in a tune Lance recognizes as one of their usual openers from other shows.  

The show goes as normal, plenty of people in the audience jumping or shouting along, Dylan and Jordan joining together on one microphone in some of the choruses, everyone letting their heart race and pound to the slamming of the drums. Keith even throws a few more of his tricks on occasion after realizing they attract a bit more crowd. Lance still ceases to be amazed and feels his stomach spin when Keith keeps the tradition, surprising him with even tricks he has already seen, and looking back over to make sure he is still watching.

Lance, obviously, watches quite intently.

The heat in the basement does start to get uncomfortable. Feeling the sweat under his arms, Lance can see moisture beading on the band’s foreheads as well. He thinks it must be unbearable being the people  _ under  _ the stage lights. Every other song, the members wipe the sweat from the backs of their necks or their foreheads. They do their best to not act uncomfortable, especially Dylan, who occasionally has to take off his glasses and wipe them clean, the lenses fogging up due to the extreme humidity.

And then there’s Keith.

Keith pulls a hairband off of his wrist that Lance hadn’t noticed before, biting it in between his front teeth while his hands creep up to the back of his head and combs through his hair with his fingers, gathering as many pieces as he could and gripping it together in one palm, pulling the band from his teeth and tying it back tightly. Only some parts of his ebony hair stay put in the ponytail, mainly the long ones at the back of his head, whilst his bangs spring out in messy directions. Almost… complimenting his semi-disgusting sweaty appearance.

Lance has to keep reminding himself to breathe for the rest of the show.

* * *

The band finishes up, placing equipment and instruments in their correct stands, leaving the desert temperatures of the stage noticeably faster than usual, and Lance creeps up the basement steps to search for the band and hang with them the rest of the night.

When he reaches the upstairs, it feels so much cooler, and he could almost lay down on the kitchen floor and be trampled just feel the cool tile on his face. The ceiling fan in what he guesses to be the living room is whirring, and it’s semi-quieter upstairs than in the basement where the party was most lively. The kitchen table is inhabited by a few party-goers, tattooed and pierced, laughing innocently, and few are preparing some alcohol-free drinks near the refrigerator. Lance hears distant laughter coming from the outdoor porch, stepping around to investigate. 

Lance’s eyes catch the sight of sleeve tattoos, arms covered in adventurous images of jungles and compasses, hanging over an off-white and faded plastic porch chair. If Jordan was out there, the rest were.

He sneaks across the living room and to the glass door, knocking and announcing his appearance before opening the door and greeting everyone. Their heads perk up, sitting still in the cushioned porch furniture, stopping their conversation. Lance wouldn’t have been able to identify who was who had the porch light not have been turned on, attracting bugs and illuminating the concrete and the lively table.

Jordan turns around, the back of his chair facing the door. Dylan, leaning against the table and looking up from his iPhone, smiles and waves, motioning Lance to join them. Keith is the first to look up, and Michael is the last, being invested in their conversation before. They took the loveseat that sat on the longer end of the glass table. Both shoot him grins of different sizes, Michael immediately shooting up from his seat and to the door, and Keith relaxing his shoulders, waving at him through the glass.

Before Lance even grabs the door handle, Michael is already there, sliding it open for him. “Lance!” he greets, and Lance laughs as he steps through the opening.

Michael closes the door with more force than everyone thinks he intended, and steps in front of Lance excitedly. “You remember?”

“Of course I do, man.”

Lance and him perform their new secret handshake, created as of late, tuning out Dylan’s remarks of them acting like dorky 4th graders. Making sound effects, the sounds of their hands and hips smacking together, even pretending to use lightsabers on each other, all to a beat and the others snorting, Lance couldn’t deny it was kind of dorky. It was a fun night coming up with it with Michael though; he felt accepted early on.

They fistbump, giving it a fade effect by fiddling their fingers and pulling away slowly. No applause follows, though, only insulting laughter from Dylan’s side of the table.

“Aw come on,” Michael complains, drooping his shoulders and arms. “We worked hard on that,” and Lance can’t help but pout along with him.

Michael starts away from his original seat, slapping Lance on the back as he heads to a different chair next to Jordan, leaving the cushion right next to Keith open. Lance thinks it isn’t intentional, but tries to comprehend why Keith was sending Michael a stare that could melt iron from across the table.

“You guys did awesome, like usual,” Lance compliments, getting a simultaneous “Thanks,” from all different sides of the porch. “It was boiling in there though, it had to have been awful under the lights,” he says. Jordan groans from his chair, leaning his neck backward and letting his arm go limp, holding his cigarette far from his face.

“It was awful,” Jordan moans. “And having to run to and from the mic the whole show, Jesus fucking Christ.” He sits up straight again, taking a drag from his cigarette and exhaling a long stream of grey smoke. “It’s much nicer out here, I actually don’t hate it outside.” The rest of the group hums in agreement.

“We were just telling Keith he looks like he  _ stole  _ his hairdo from a grungy teenage girl,” Dylan snorts, leaving Lance wondering why he put emphasis on the word “stole.”

“A  _ thief  _ to all fashion statements.”

“Yes yes, it must be  _ illegal _ to pull of a ponytail as a dude.”

“Stole the hearts of plenty in the crowd, then and there.” Michael’s eyes make contact with Lance’s, a somewhat devilish grin stitched under his nose. Lance gulps, darting his eyes in confusion. Was he supposed to say something?

Keith holds his head up with his palm, his face turned away from Lance, ears growing hot. He thanks every entity anyone could believe in for making Lance oblivious to what his bandmates are referencing.

They remind him of 3 mischievous characters, triplets, The 3 Stooges, causing trouble he could  _ definitely _ live without. If he didn’t have a right mind, he wouldn’t have known it was only going to progress in a bad direction.

“SO, LANCE,” Keith interrupts, raising his voice louder than the others. He even earns a snicker from Jordan, who presses the butt of his cigarette on the end of the table and flicks it somewhere across the porch. “I’m starving, are you starving? Let’s get some fucking food or something,” he changes the subject, Lance cocking his head while Dylan squints his eyes shut from holding back loud cackling.

“Oh yeah, I’m fucking starving too, Keith my man. I think there’s some  _ fucking food _ downstairs, if you’re that fucking hungry,” Michael replies matter-of-factly, somehow keeping his cool, unlike Dylan and Jordan. Lance feels distant to what the tone of the conversation is about, but still raises his eyebrows, surprised at how Michael, who he could consider to be the most giggly and loud of the bunch, could stifle laughter better than the other two.

When he turns to face Keith, Keith’s eyes are bulging a bit, forcing a smile.

“Like absolute hell I would step foot in that human oven again, Michael. I’ll have to decline for the  _ fucking food  _ waiting downstairs,” he growls through his teeth. “I don’t need your concern over my own hunger.” Keith shifts his weight and turns to Lance, relaxing his face. Lance shoots him an anxious smile, silently trying to ask Keith what was going on.

Keith lowers his shoulders, sending Lance a genuine, reassuring half-smile. He is about to speak normally, until Michael perks up yet again.

“Can I be concerned for your hydration? Because you seem kinda thirsty too, Keith,” Michael snarks through the hand covering his mouth. Keith whips his head in Michael’s direction, pouting his lips and kicking the shirtless guy’s shin from under the table. Michael yelps, laughing at his own comment.

“There’s um… a diner nearby that’s open super late, I think till’ like 3 a.m.. Or all night, I can’t remember,” Keith rambles, delaying his actual question. His bandmates all exchange looks while Keith waits to see that they don’t have anything left to say.

“But we should go, y-you and I,” Keith offers, locking his gaze onto Lance for good.

“Awww, Keith, why don’t you go and pick some food up for all of us. We can stick here with Lance while we wait,” Michael offers, and Keith snorts, lifting his chin up from the ball of his palm. Yeah fucking right he would leave Lance alone with them tonight.

“Can’t, Michael, I have no interest in coming back and I’m Lance’s ride, so…” Keith waits for an approval from Lance. Praying for an approval from Lance. Dear god Lance just approve so Keith can get the fuck ou-

“Sure, that sounds okay-” Lance barely finishes his sentence before Keith springs up from the seat like a jack-in-the-box, gripping his wrist and making a bee-line straight for the door, dragging him behind.

“Noooooo Keeeeeiiitthhhhh,” Michael whines, earning snickers from Dylan and Jordan. “You’ve stolen many things, but don’t  _ steal Lance  _ away too!!”

“Goodbye, see you next practice,” Keith monotones, opening the door for a flabbergasted Lance.

“After you,” Keith motions Lance through the door. Lance replies with a shaky “O-okay,” not bothering to question everyone’s odd behavior anymore, and making his way into the house.

Keith turns on his heel, facing his clan in a defensive stance. His cheeks haven’t stopped burning since the beginning, but regardless of how seriously they would take him, he flicks his middle finger and stumbles through the door, following Lance and shutting the glass. The door muffles the sudden uproar of cackling from outside, and it’s startling seeing as though that much noise could come from only 3 guys. 

Keith lets out a huff of air, glancing over to the questioning Lance leaning over the kitchen counter. He isn’t mad at his mates. Lance awaits an explanation, a confused expression practically glowing from his face. Keith smiles out of the corner of his mouth, heart doing a small flip over Lance’s cute face. He shuts down his act of sarcasm, and turns on regular Keith mode.

“Okay, let’s go then,” Keith initiates, starting towards the front door across the house, reaching into his pocket and gripping his phone, spinning it in his right palm. Lance follows behind him, grazing his fingers along the walls and kitchen chairs.

“What was that all about?” Lance asks. Keith’s shoulders visibly tense. Keith already knows what Lance means, but still asks him to explain. He feigns innocence.

“...What do you mean?” he questions, voice raising in pitch like it does when he obviously lies.

“Why were you guys all…” Lance pauses, bending and straightening his fingers as if he were trying to grab something. “Full of tension.”

Keith spins around, mouth cracked open in small amounts of shock. The tone of Lance’s voice plucks his heart strings, but it isn’t enough to convince his stubborn mind, regardless.

“Nothing! N-nothing. You’ve seen them before. Sometimes we just… tease each other,” Keith averts his eyes, cradling the back of his head in his hands and averting his eyes. “That’s all,” he gulps. A sense of guilt beats him down, but he’s thankful Lance is still oblivious anyway. 

Keith expects full silence, tension drilling into him like a double-sided knife, but only receives the sound of Lance’s thoughts while they left the still unfamiliar home and ducked into the seats of the car.

“So,” Lance was the first to break the quiet, voice significantly less dim than it was a few minutes before. “What’s this diner you’re telling me about?” He clicks his seatbelt on, turning his upper body towards the driver’s seat and leaning against the inner side of the door.

Keith already has his foot lowering down onto the gas pedal, feeling some relief flutter off of his chest after Lance already started sounding better.

“It’s a pretty old place, actually. I don’t know when it was built. It’s called Lenny’s diner. Really late at night like this is when they start making breakfast, but they still have food left over from dinner, so you can order anything, really,” Keith looks to Lance, brunette shifting in his seat and facing forward, unfolding his arms. Keith reads his body language -- Lance was open to him again.

“That sounds fun,” Lance relaxes, sliding down in his seat, eyelids drooping with sleepiness.  It’s well past 1 in the morning, and Keith realizes Lance’s lack of reaction as being low on energy. He adds introducing Lenny’s coffee to Lance on his mental checklist.

Keith’s hands start to sweat on the steering wheel, his knuckles turning white without him even noticing how hard he was gripping the leather. He can’t help but feel he’s boring Lance completely, like he’d dragged him away from fun.

With his hair tied up, Keith’s bangs wouldn’t hit his face and cover his eyes while he was driving with the windows down. So to cut through the silence, Keith rolls his window down halfway, looking to Lance to see if he would get too cold or ask him to roll the glass back up. He doesn’t receive a reply, and rolling his entire window down completely. In the middle of the night when no one was driving, Keith liked to blast whatever music he had playing with his windows down. If Lance is enjoying his shows, he figures, he might enjoy this too.

Keith hopes Lance is okay with it. He plugs the AUX cord in the headphone jack of his cell phone, tapping a playlist and the shuffle button with the tip of his thumb. Lance’s head is leaning against the closed passenger window, so Keith doesn’t let his music blast loud enough to rattle and vibrate the vehicle.

The car speakers sing the short strums of an electric guitar, Keith almost immediately recognizing the tune they belong to. He smirks when he hears Toy Dolls; the main vocalist’s ridiculous yet unique voice that somehow, coincidentally, Dylan can imitate fairly accurately, their odd singles and song names, their super talented and absolutely insane musicians. Allura had always compared Dazed to Toy Dolls, and Keith supposed he could take it as a compliment, as they were undoubtedly very very good.

Good, yet somehow able to make one of his favorites covered by them a song meant for children. Nellie the Elephant? Somehow, those guys managed to make hundreds of people go nuts every time they heard such a song, and Keith could take that as a compliment.

_ “They had an in-tel-li-gent el-e-phant, and Nell-ie was her name,” _ the vocalist sings out in rhythm, Keith patting his hands on the black, leathery steering wheel to the beat of the syllables of the lyrics. He does it without a problem, already knowing the redundant lyrics by heart, and he notices Lance has opened his eyes, looking almost shocked, lifting his head up from against the window.

“Hey! I….I know this one,” Lance admits sleepily, startled, as he never recognizes any of Keith’s music. What-so-ever. There’s so much of it -- he had never bothered to try. But the vocalist’s voice, the crisp guitar strumming, Lance knew it. It was the song Allura and Shiro knew all the lyrics to on the car ride to the first of Keith’s show he ever attended.

Keith raises his eyebrows, pausing his lip singing.

“Yeah… well, it is a kid’s song too. You might know it from somewher-” Keith is cut off by Lance becoming more alert in a matter of seconds, raising his voice to the sound of the band singing  _ “ooooooOOOOOOOO”s  _ in increasing dynamic.

“Nonono, I know it. Toy Dolls, yeah?” Lance asks excitedly, like Keith is a teacher who is supposed to confirm his answer. Keith’s lips part into a smile at Lance’s interruption, nodding quickly before both he and Lance simultaneously break into the chorus louder than the speakers. Repetitive enough, Lance only had to have listened to the song once to know most of the lyrics.

_ Nellie the Elephant packed her trunk and said goodbye to the circus, _

_ Off she went with a trumpty trump, trump trump trump! _

Keith and Lance bang their hands on the dashboard at nearly the same time. Keith flings his head back in loud laughter, as Lance points finger pistols in his direction, obviously proud of himself for having some knowledge of what kind of music he liked.

Lance’s voice moves perfectly along with the music. His right hand makes it’s way to the stereo like it had been itching to do for the entire car ride so far, turning the volume louder than the wind shouting and bellowing in the windows, all of which he had already rolled down completely.

Keith makes multiple glances over to Lance, hitting the steering wheel to the beat and making as much noise as he could. Lance is giggling proudly, singing all the lyrics he already knows, catching onto Keith’s doing and slapping the dashboard with great force and drumming with his fingertips.

"I heard this song on the first night we met!" Lance calls out over the music, wind beating at Keith's ears through the open windows.

He runs his fingers through his hair, turning to look at Lance as the chorus starts up again.

His face is flushed, laughing as he bangs his hands on the dashboard and sings at the top of his lungs, grin stretched from ear to ear as he smiles at Keith.

His heart skips a beat as the drums kick back in, and as he bangs his hands on the steering wheel in time with the music, all he can think about is how beautiful Lance looks beside him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was written by Muffin!!  
> Who knew a children's song could be so sentimental, yeah? See you in chapter six my dudes!  
> -Muff
> 
> (@themuffintitan on Tumblr!)


	6. Sloppy Seconds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sloppy Seconds - Watsky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2 chapters in one day again! V nice.

“What can I get you, babe?”

A waitress stands at the end of  their table, gum popping between her teeth as she lets her hip rest against the edge of the table. She taps her pen against her notepad in time with the music flowing from the speakers in the ceiling, some Red Hot Chili Peppers song that Keith hasn’t heard since he was in high school. Her hair is pulled up in a messy bun, strands of it falling forward in front of her face as she stares down at the boys in front of her, a bored expression on her face.

Keith thinks that she may be the most cliche small-town diner waitress that he’s ever seen.

But he smiles anyway, plucking Lance’s menu from his hands and handing it to the waitress. Lance lets out a cry of protest, but Keith ignores him.

“Two orders of pancakes and two coffees, please.”

“Is that it?”

“Wait!” Lance says, frowning. “I haven’t looked-”

“That’s it,” Keith interrupts, and Lance throws his arms into the air in exasperation, sliding lower in the booth and pouting. The waitress raises an eyebrow as she looks at him, but doesn’t say anything as she nods and backs away from the table.

Lance waits until she’s gone to shoot a glare at Keith. “I didn’t even get to look at the menu.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Keith says, shrugging. “The only thing worth getting here is the pancakes. You’ll never have anything better, really. And you’re exhausted, so you need caffeine.”

“I don’t even like coffee,” Lance says, an eyebrow raised. Keith shakes his head.

“No, no. You’ll love Lenny’s coffee. Especially with those little vanilla creamer things they have here. It’s the best.” The corners of his mouth twitch upwards into a challenging smirk. “Do you trust me?”

The tips of Lance’s ears turn pink, and Keith isn’t sure if it’s a trick of the light or if he’s embarrassed. “Yeah,” Lance says quietly. “Yeah, I trust you.”

* * *

Since the only people in the diner are themselves and a group of highschoolers seeming to be celebrating the closing out of their latest school play, their food comes out relatively quickly. Lance, of course, loves the pancakes just as Keith had predicted. And after a cup and a half of, quote, “the only coffee that Lance will  _ ever _ drink”, he was looking a lot more awake than he had been when they’d first sat down.

Unfortunately for Keith, this meant he was awake enough to do some interrogating.

“So you never told me what your band members were laughing about earlier,” Lance says, stabbing at one of his pancakes and waving the piece in front of his face. He closes one of his eyes, seeming to block out Keith’s face with the slice of pancake hanging off the end of his fork. Keith makes a face.

“Nothing. Like I said, it was just some dumb inside joke.” He hopes that Lance will drop it, and maybe he can avoid attempting to make up some excuse on his friends’ behalf. Lance hums, sticking his fork between his lips and giving Keith a skeptical look. So he decides to attempt to change the subject instead. “What about you, though? Tell me about your friends.”

Luckily for him, Lance buys into it immediately. His eyes light up, and he pulls the fork from his mouth, sitting up excitedly.

“Oh yeah! You haven’t met them yet, huh?” He sets his fork down on his plate. “Well they’re great. Really awesome. Well, at least Hunk is.” He lets out a small snort, and Keith smiles. “Pidge is kind of an asshole. But they love me. And I would take a bullet for either of them, honestly. Pidge and Hunk are my best friends, you know? I’ve known them since we were younger.”

“Like, kids?”

“Nah,” Lance says, picking his fork back up and flipping it sideways, using it to cut off another piece of his pancake. “LIke high school. Freshman year we were all in the same biology class. I was Hunk’s lab partner and Pidge sat behind us. Pidge’d listen in on most of our conversations and offer up their input, even though it was usually just to make fun of me for getting shot down by various people.”

Keith pauses in cutting up his own pancake, debating whether or not to ask the question posed in front of him. He decides to go for it.

“Girls?”

“And guys,” Lance says casually, reaching over to grab his cup from across the table. Keith’s stomach flips, and something in his chest flutters. He pushes it down, refusing to think about it. Lance is already continuing with his story. “I wasn’t like, a massive player or anything,” he says quickly, “It’s just that there were very cute people at school and I needed dates to homecoming. Or winter formal. Or the movies on Fridays. You know, whatever.”

Keith hums, taking a bite of his pancakes. “But you always got shut down.”

“What about you!” Lance cries out quickly, and much too loudly. Keith’s fork scrapes across his plate, squeaking loudly.

“Wh- uh, what about me?” He asks.

“When, uh, when did you meet your band members?” Lance asks awkwardly, and Keith lets out a breath of semi-relief.

“Ah, middle school.” He says, and Lance chokes a bit on his coffee.

“That long ago?”

“Well I met Dylan in 6th grade,” he says. “He was... odd. Didn’t talk much, was really analytical about everything, did nothing but read comics and watch MTV all day.”

“So nothing has really changed, then,” Lance cuts in, and Keith huffs out a laugh.

“Pretty much. We hung out. Didn’t really talk, but were close enough to be friends anyway. We kind of got each other, I guess. After... Ah. He was there for me through a kind of tough time.”

“What happened?” Lance asks, casually, and Keith pretends he didn’t hear the question.

“We met Michael in 8th grade,” he says instead, ignoring Lance’s slight frown. “Lab partners, like you and Hunk. He started hanging out with us at lunch, said he got a kick out of Dylan analyzing everything, or his dumb jokes and music taste. He was a good balance, though, because- well, you’ve met him. He’s crazy happy all the time.”

“Yeah,” Lance says, with a bit of hesitation. “I bet he was good for that tough time too, then?”

Keith ignores him a second time. “Jordan transferred to our school our junior year of high school. We were in guitar class together. He played guitar, obviously. He kept to himself, but I would hear him down the hallways, playing and stuff. The halls were really great; tiles on the floor, high ceilings,  _ amazing _ acoustics, so one day I went out with Dylan and we all played together. They played guitar and I had an acoustic bass and we jammed, you know? That’s when we kind of started considering forming an actual band.”

Lance hums, and Keith can feel his irritation at having his questions deflected. So Keith turns the subject back on him.

“Tell me about your family?”

For a second he thinks Lance won’t take the idea. But after a second of pondering Lance begins to smile, and Keith lets out a sigh of relief over the fact that Lance’s excitement for his family clearly outweighs his need to dig through Keith’s past.

“They’re amazing,” he says, sliding forward in the booth and placing his elbows on the table. “My mom, Stella, she’s... she’s the coolest. She’s a writer, so she’s able to stay at home and stay with my siblings. Twins. Ethan and Elena. They’re in high school, so they’re not that much younger than I am. But my mom likes to be there, you know? Especially because David, my dad, he usually isn’t able to be.”

Keith raises an eyebrow, but Lance waves him off. “Long hours, usually. He works at an electrical construction company. He’s the foreman. Makes sure all of the lights get installed and stuff. He travels a lot for work, so he usually comes home on weekends depending on where his new job site is.”

“That sounds kind of hard,” Keith says, and Lance shrugs.

“Mom says it’s great because she can focus on her writing instead of making sure Dad doesn’t do anything stupid,” he laughs. “Once he was stationed in Minneapolis, though, and that was cool. His company tends to get him an apartment wherever he’s currently stationed. Since he was like 3 hours away, it would have been hard for him to drive back and forth every day. So one time we went out for a weekend, visited with him and stayed in his apartment and even got to go to a Vikings game. That was sweet.

“It all just depends on the project,” Lance says, shrugging. “Sometimes he’s 20 minutes away and others he’s 6 hours. The Minneapolis project lasted almost 3 years, and he would come back on weekends and sometimes during the week to surprise us. He had a project that lasted a week and a half that was 30 minutes and came home every night. Once he had a project 6 hours away that lasted nearly 5 months and he hardly ever came home at all. That one was kind of hard.

“But it’s fine,” Lance says, smiling. “Because it’s that much better when we  _ do _ get to see him, you know?”

“Yeah,” Keith says, not really understanding at all.

“The twins are a pain in the ass,” Lance continues, pushing around pieces of pancakes on his plate. He props up an elbow on the table, dropping his chin into his upturned palm. “But they’re my best friends. We used to do everything together, when I lived at home. I’d drive them everywhere and they’d whine to me about how bad I was at it, we’d go hiking or exploring or just lay around and watch movies. Pidge and Hunk got along with them really well so we’d all hang out a lot. There was just enough of an age gap between us so that they could keep up with us, you know? Only 3 years.

“Now that I’m at school, though, we don’t see each other as often as we did. I’m only like 45 minutes away from home but since I live in the off-campus housing I don’t go back to visit much. Maybe a couple times a month? We still text and stuff all the time, though.” Something in Lance’s face changes, and he smiles down at his half-finished pancakes. His smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I miss them.”

“Yeah,” Keith says again, and this time he thinks he understands.

* * *

They make it through the rest of the meal without Lance asking him any questions he’d been afraid to ask, and soon they’re back on the topic of music.

“Watsky?”

“Oh my God yeah,” Lance says excitedly, pulling up the AUX cord from the floor of Keith’s car and scrambling to pull out his phone. “He’s great. I love his stuff, honestly. It’s great. Super great.”

“What does he play?”

“He raps.”

Keith makes a face.

“Oh stop!” Lance cries as he catches the look of distaste. “You’ll like it!”

“And here I hoped you’d listen to something cool.”

“I  _ do _ listen to cool stuff,” Lance shoots back, rolling his eyes and pulling his feet up to rest on the dash. He rolls down the windows, the night air cold enough to sting but not seeming to affect him in the least. “Watsky is cool. You’ll see.”

Keith figures that since he’s never actually  _ listened _ to Lance’s music, he may as well try. So he just rolls his eyes, half shrugging as Lance bounces excitedly in his seat.

“Okay, okay, okay,” he repeats, smiling, thumbing through his playlist. “This one is called Sloppy Seconds and it’s like... It’s my favorite.”

The song starts up almost immediately, and Lance jumps right in.

He raps along flawlessly, bobbing his head and moving his arms, pointing at Keith and out the window and drumming his hands on his knees. Keith laughs, taking it all in, watching Lance out of the corner of his eye as he moves with the flow seamlessly.

He turns to Keith during the last verse, leaning back in his seat a bit more and leaning onto the center console, nearly resting his head on Keith’s shoulder.

“And there is not a single place that I would rather be,” he sings, one hand out the window, letting his fingers dance as he smiles up at Keith. “I’m fucked up just like you are, and you’re fucked up just like me.”

Keith’s heart flutters, smiles as he pushes Lance’s head back to his side of the car. Lance is undeterred, though, and he laughs, running his fingers through his hair and calling out to Keith from over the wind and the music.

“So,” he asks, and Keith hums in acknowledgement. “Do you like him?”

Keith looks at Lance, pausing for a moment before answering.

“Yeah,” he says. “I do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was written by Maddy!
> 
> (@fairietailed on Tumblr)


	7. Staircase at the University

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Staircase at the University - Morrissey
> 
> Ah, here it is. Pidge and Hunk finally get to meet who this mystery Keith guy is. Lance may have died a couple times. Keith is hopeless.

Lance tugs on the corner of his beanie, pulling it down over his ears. It’s hard to do one-handed, leaving the hat on crooked, and he grumbles to himself as he stuffs his free hand in his jacket pocket. He takes a sip of his coffee that’s held in his other hand, the name on the front reading “Jace”.

He wonders if it’s a requirement for baristas to be unable to spell normal names.

Pidge walks beside him on his right, a spring in their step that tells Lance that they’re having a very good day, and will most likely spend the entire time they’re at the library talking about whatever new electronics they’ve gotten or fixed or modified. They’re practically skipping beside Lance, who doesn’t have the heart in him to tell them to stop.

Hunk is on his left, still half asleep and chugging his own large coffee like it’s necessary for his survival. Lance thinks that maybe it is.

He watches as Hunk pops the lid off of his coffee, downing the rest of it in one gulp before tossing his cup into a trashcan as he passes by. He yawns, and Lance frowns.

“Did you sleep last night?”

“Huh?” Hunk is slow to move, groggy and tired and eyes half-lidded. “I- yeah, man, yeah.”

“I don’t think so,” Lance says, pointing at Hunk. “You were probably up all night working on some contraption. Or talking to Shay.”

“Or both,” Pidge adds.

“Or both!” Lance agrees.

Hunk looks like he wants to challenge their accusations, but seems to be too tired to try. “Yeah, both,” he says, shrugging. “But both of the things got done so I mean, it was worth it?”

“Was it?” Lance asks, and Pidge snorts. “You’re a zombie, my dude.”

“I’m no worse than you when you come back from your boyfriend’s shows,” Hunk fires back, and Pidge ‘ooo’s from Lance’s right. Lance scrunches his nose, taking a sip of his coffee and making sure to exaggerate the smack of his lips and the “aaah” beginning his sentence.

“Ah, well, Hunk, my buddy pal, first of all, Keith isn’t my boyfriend and I’m not going to tell you again,” Hunk rolls his eyes, having heard the same thing before, the phrase only getting more ridiculous and desperate as it is used more often, “and second of all, I consider myself to be a pretty peachy morning person, even after Keith’s shows, in fact.”

“Hey, Hunk, remember that time Lance came home from one of Keith’s shows and put chili powder on his eggs instead of salt because he was too tired to read the label?”

Lance chokes, almost as if he had swallowed the chili powder and was suddenly holding his breath again. Hunk hums and squints, half from smiling, half...probably from not being able to keep his eye all the way open anyway.

“Oh yeah yeah! And when he came home from another show without sleeping at all, and ran into the glass door because he didn’t notice it was there?

Lance swallows, annoyed and embarrassed at his roommates’ sarcastic tones. They snicker on both sides of him as he rubs the back of his neck. He switches the hands holding his coffee, and he winces as he doesn't expect the cold touch of his own palm.

“Whenever you come back from Keith’s shows, you're basically dead, dude.”

Pidge stops whenever they need to laugh, cupping their hand over their mouth loosely and muffling their snorting. They eventually have to start running every time this happens in order to keep up with their short legs. Pidge stretches their arms back, only slightly winded after they've caught up.

“I’m not one for big parties, I never thought you were either,” Pidge cocks their eyebrow and looks at Lance out if the corner of their eye. “But I'm super curious about what you even do to crash as hard as you do when you arrive at home.” Hunk yawns into in an empty palm and nods in agreement.

“Or those practices you keep showing up at. You’re the busboy for them you said?”

Lance scoffs, almost hurtfully.

“I’m not their  _ busboy _ .” He bites and tears off a fingernail before stuffing his free hand in his pocket again. “There’s just a coffee shop down the street from Jordan’s and I go and get them donuts if they give me the money.”

Pidge and Hunk glance at each other from across Lance’s width, both raising their eyebrows. Lance rolls his eyes and tries to fix his friends’ suspicions.

“They aren’t  _ using  _  me, I don’t normally go alone! A-and most of the time Keith and I just..walk down there together. Before practice starts,” he rubs the back of his neck and keeps his gaze dead ahead of him, not able to turn his head to either side of his body without earning some kind of teasing. He holds his head high, swallowing, taking what he deserved like a champ. His neck starts to burn before his friends even get their usual devilish grin.

“ _ Ah, L’amore…  _ milky coffee cups and greasy donuts, hm Pidge?” Hunk kids, twisting an invisible moustache and very stereotypically speaking with intense action in his hand motions. Pidge places both of their hands over their heart, imitating a lovesick maiden and pretending to swoon. Lance’s shoulders tense in an attempt to hide the crimson blooming from his ears, annoyed.

“Yeah, alright. Do whatever, I don’t care. I’ll just get to the library before the shelf with the textbooks is empty,” he growls, growing increasingly tired of their teasing. He doesn’t know what he’s going to do when his friends actually  _ met  _ Keith and the band. They would have to sooner or later, or Keith and his hot face would seem like nothing but an enormous lie.  He wasn’t planning on showing them any of his text messages as proof, either. 

The three of them, with ideas of what textbooks they were looking for and passwords to get into the computer systems in their minds, enter the library. Lance pushes the heavy glass door inward and holds it open for his friends by default before following behind them. The volume surrounding them lowers, traffic noises muffled through the walls and replaced with soft sniffles of fall allergies and the crisp, satisfying sound of the librarian at the desk typing away at her outdated desktop and keyboard.

The building smells old, like neglected books from overtime getting more brittle and frail from excessive borrowing and using by different beings. Everything is covered in different fingerprints from however long the library has been around. Walking past the desk, Lance’s nostrils fill with the scent of dark coffee and cocoa, which he assumes is being prepared in an office outsiders like him aren't allowed in.

The ceilings are low and the stained wooden shelves are high, covering the perimeter of the building in book spines, corny posters that say, “Don't Judge a Book by it’s Movie,” and “Keep Calm and Return Your Pencils,” filling the gaps of empty wall in between. Large and glittery yellow lights covered in translucent glass hang from different areas on the ceiling, parallel to the few tables sprawled out in the wide area of the floor.

The trio explores around, running their fingertips along the lining of the shelves in search for the textbooks and encyclopedias. They come across a children's area with a colorful rug and a few kids with cars in their grasp, being shushed by their mothers. At the same time, the group turns on their heels and go backwards towards where they came from.

“This building isn't even that big, how are we getting lost?” Hunk whispers, cautious of his volume. Pidge is already losing the bounce in their step that they had before, looking around at signs hanging with sticky tack all over the shelves. They squint at the numbers indicating the nonfiction section, and start around the corner of another shelf, pointing in the direction they are chugging.

“This way. We should’ve just read the signs.”

Lance and Hunk follow behind like slow, uncaring ducks; Lance shoving his hands deeper into his pockets. He huffs, giving the tuft of hair that rests on his forehead lift off.

Over the sounds of his own breath though, he hears a familiar voice that, if it was humanly possible, would make his ears perk up like a dog’s whenever it hears the word “walk” or “treat”.

“...Dylan can’t you carry, I don’t know, half of these maybe?”

When Lance turns around the corner of the shelves, he immediately on instinct reverses back two steps, fingers wrapping around the wooden corners of the shelves and angling his body in an oblique position, enough to camouflage himself behind the cluttered book mess and still discreetly peek and eavesdrop on the conversation between two recognizable backsides.

Pidge and Hunk make their way in the same direction towards the textbooks, taking a few seconds to notice their friend slacking behind. Both turn on que, looking back at him questionably and awaiting an explanation. Lance hopes his bassist friend doesn’t turn around to witness the awkward silence, and his cheeks already start to tint, he feels; He shrinks into his shoulders, not saying a word as his friends were already looking back around at the two boys they considered strangers.

“No. Just strain for a little longer, I know you’re stronger than me, Keith.”

Lance, already knowing he can’t make himself more obvious to his roommates from hiding behind the bookshelf, tries his best to make sure he gives them cold, dead, “Don’t say  _ anything _ ” eye contact when they turn back around, with more alacrity this time. Both of their eyebrows are raised at the sound of the mystery boy’s name, and Lance finds his body is crumbling under the tension only he could feel, like the library ceiling was being held up on his shoulders. Lance’s eyes are just as wide -- in fear, or nerves? Maybe in hopes that they don’t ruin something. He purses his lips and nods in their direction, his heart racing.

Keith is holding a stack of few, yet alarmingly thick books in his arms, stretched out straight and elbows locked in from trying to hold the weight. His getup gives off vibes that he is out of place, and very out of his element. A flannel shirt covers his arms, back straining to hold himself up and stay standing. Dylan squats down beside him, pointing his fingers through the spines of textbooks on the bottom shelf and reading each title to carefully depict what he will need.

“I wouldn’t have come if I knew I was going to be put through labor work,” he bounces the books on his knee to bring them higher into his fingers’ grasp, and Dylan prys a smaller, much thinner book from the compression of the others forced into one place, straightening his legs and adding onto the mountain Keith holds in his arms. Keith is like God, holding basically the whole world in his hands. The whole wide world. He groaned at the sight of another addition.

“This isn’t even a textbook. It’s a comic book.”

“It’s for my English class.” 

“Why are you reading comics in English class? I probably read this when I was like, four.”

“You read  _ Maus  _ when you were  _ four _ .”

“Uh, yeah, probably, if it’s a comic book.”

Dylan sighs and scratches his head, like an explorer who was stumped on the whereabouts of an ancient text he had been searching for for years. Not all that different to his situation then. He just can’t find a certain dusty old textbook. He’s sure he will regret some of the classes he’s taken. He continues his conversation with Keith and multitasks by reading the barcodes.

“It isn’t a comic book. It’s a graphic novel. And it’s a really good analysis of the author’s experience of surviving the Holocaust. It’s great to analyze.” He gives up, just about to take some of Keith’s load and pointing at the front cover of said book. It pictures little anthropomorphic mice dressed in blue and white striped clothing. “It’s even got a swastika on the front, dude.”

Pidge laughs behind their hand at Keith’s expression, trying to keep quiet and avoid from the two boys noticing they were being spied on. Keith raises his eyebrows in surprise, feeling stupid for not noticing, but he simply shrugs it off and rolls his eyes to hide it.

“Well….W-whatever dude it’s still a comic book,” he denies, feeling Dylan’s smirk without having to look.

“You’re so insensitive,” Dylan laughs, digging his fingers under half of the tower of books and lifting them up into his own arms. Keith visibly loosens from the cut of excess weight, enough to make his shoulders bounce when he laughs comfortably with his friend at his own stupidity.

“You know that’s not what I meant.”

“How long has it been since you’ve been in school?”

Their playful argument continues as Pidge and Hunk head back over to an unnoticed, transfixed Lance, watching intently and hypnotized by the sound of Keith’s laughter. Pidge punches his arm to get his attention, motioning their head over to the textbooks. Lance wants to wait until Keith isn’t in sight, knowing if he appeared now Keith would assume he was spying. He doesn’t follow at first, and his friends think they haven’t snapped him out of it quite yet.

“Come on, Lance,” Hunk calls, unfortunately, forgetting his voice is louder than the others’ and that he is in a library, gaining the attention of the two grungy boys  _ immediately.  _ They whip their heads around, and catch sight of the boy matching the name they had heard, like a reverse game of “Guess Who?”. Lance panics, eyes bulging, and jumps out from behind the bookshelf.

“Sur PRISE!!! H-Hey, Keith, Dylan!! My guys!!! My men! I didn’t know you two were here how long have you been here? Didn’t expect to see you here, yeah? My dudes?” His voice is already shaking and is Hunk hunched over, embarassed by his klutziness and muttering, “Sorry,” shyly. Pidge has to pull the collar of their jacket over their mouth to hide their snorts, already enjoying the first impression of Keith and Lance’s relationship.

Really the only thing that breaks through the shock of the moment isn’t the sound of Dylan’s back almost breaking when Keith drops whatever he is holding into his arms, but rather Keith’s little gasp and lit up eyes as he starts towards the group of three.

“Lance! What are you doing here?” Keith doesn’t register the others around, attitude totally changing and in need of Dylan struggling behind him to tell him to “Stop being a blockhead and be quiet, or we’ll get kicked out.”

Pidge and Hunk look at each other, almost shocked by the sudden change, both checking that the other noticed as well. That they mutually could see through this Keith guy already. The smile that he gives off might as well be replaced with flipping over the tables and doing some cartwheels like an excited little kid, before kneeling down on one knee in front of Lance and telling him he makes him the happiest man alive.

And Lance is no better. The back of his neck is already starting to flush, gracefully covered by the palm of his hand from the bashful gesture of rubbing his own neck. He keeps his head any angle except straight ahead, averting his eyes back and forth, kicking the ground and practically batting his eyelashes. 

“H-hey. I’m just here getting textbooks with my roommates. It’s too early for this,” he mutters, already giggly from Keith’s rays of sunshine. Keith settles over, crossing his arms and leaning back into one of the wooden chairs tucked under a table nearby like a cliche badboy already making stupid attempts to act cooler. The two of them are reflecting off of each other, as if they’re in an isolated bubble of idiotic giggling and rosy cheeks, running their fingers through their hair and trying to act attractive.

Dylan sets the books down as quietly as he can, making eye contact with Pidge and Hunk from across the room. He doesn’t know who they are, but he motions between Lance and Keith and proceeds to obnoxiously pretend to faint like a lovesick maiden, placing the back of his palm of his forehead and swooning. The other two reply, snickering under their breath in understanding. They point at Lance and make kissy faces from across the room, to which Dylan winks at them, biting back his own giggles and nodding over at them. Keith and Lance don’t even notice.

“Your friends?”

“Yeah! Hunk,” Lance points, “And Pidge. I’ve told you about them before.”

“You have.”

Lance faces his best friends, and as much as he loves them with all of his heart, he was about to clash two different stereotypes together, and he hopes and prays that they (see: Pidge) won’t give him a hard time. He extends an arm out to present to them Keith, the guy he was...obviously into according to them and is oblivious to his feelings.

“Pidge, Hunk, this is Keith. He’s the-” he clears his throat, an attempt to put emphasis on his words, “- _ friend  _ I’ve been seeing at shows and going to practices with. And that’s Dylan over there, with the glasses. He’s a pal too. He is also in said band.” Dylan hauls the rest of the textbooks over to the group, exhaling intensely when he drops the books on the table and waves to the new strangers. Hunk extends a hand to Keith, to which Keith firmly takes, smirking, as he could already tell Hunk and Lance weren’t much different personality wise. Same greeting, same bashful, first impression smile.

“So you’re the famous Keith,” he shook firmly, Pidge clicking their phone to sleep and standing up straight. It was a habit they did when meeting new people, trying to be taller than them. Lance smiles out of the corner of his mouth, getting a false sense of security from their sweet introductions.

“Yeah it’s nice to finally meet you,” Pidge says, landing on their heels permanently onto the floor and stretching their own hand out to slap Keith’s gloved. “Lance likes to dance around in the kitchen to your music.”

Tufts of steam might as well have puffed from both Keith and Lance’s ears, Lance cupping his mouth in surprise and Keith stiffening up in response. Keith’s ears feel like they are going to melt off and he laughs nervously, trying to picture to image Pidge had given him.

“THAT’S A LIE!!!” Lance professes, earning yet another strike from one of the workers shushing him from their cart full of books. Hunk and Pidge start cackling together and Keith awkwardly lets out a breathy laugh, not knowing what to do.

“‘Pidge, Pidge do you hear that bassline?’” Pidge puts their hand to their ear like a crusty old man lowering their voice to mock Lance. “‘That  _ sick  _ bassline?? That’s KEITH. That’s KEITH PLAYING, isn’t he AWESOME’,” they tease to Lance, who is having trouble controlling his twitching fingers and protests.

Keith mutters something like a “Thanks,” but it can’t be heard over Lance’s claims that Pidge was wrongly spreading  _ lies. _

Hunk motions his hands to lower it down, not wanting to earn another strike and get kicked out. God knows even though Hunk is a gigantic human teddy bear, the bags under his eyes are an easy excuse for him to use when he knocks his friends out like lights after he’s stayed up all night for nothing. Pidge shuts up, Lance stops yelling, and Keith is looking over at Dylan, mentally asking for help and  _ fuming. _

Dylan wraps an arm around Keith’s shoulder, squeezing him harder than normal for revenge on cracking his back, and waving to his two new peers.

“Glad you like it! It’s hard to write and even harder to get Keith to practice it,” he says, and Keith shoves him away, a grin big enough to stretch to his ears covering his face. “I’m only saying what’s true!”

“I don’t need to practice, it’s easy.” 

“Yeah. You do.”   
  
“I never even would’ve thought you practice, Keith. I’ve kind of always just assumed you guys were good,” Lance adds, making Keith feel even more bashful. He’s stuck in a near-headlock by Dylan, while only being a few inches shorter than him, and grips the arm wrapped around his neck. He tries to take advantage and use to arm to cover his cheeks. 

“C-c’mon I’m not  _ that  _ good,” he splutters, and Dylan messes up the hair on top of his head. “Hey! Stop-”

“Oh he’s awful at our group practices. He’s never ready,” Dylan says, treating Keith like a little brother despite their miniscule age gap. Keith is struggling to escape his hold whilst being wrestled over a table, not helping how flustered he is.

“I think your practices sound fine?” Lance says, pulling a chair up across from Keith’s side of the table.

“You wouldn’t be a band without a bass player, I hold the band togeth- AGH,” Dylan pulls his arm tighter.

“Don’t use that excuse on me. You didn’t start Dazed,” Dylan argues, and Keith starts to beg for his release. “Don’t drop the books on me next time.”

“Fine! I won’t,” Keith says, and he is released from Dylan’s arms, flustered and falling right into the chair below him. He looks back up and punches Dylan in the arm. “Still, you guys would be nothing without a bass.”

“We’d be better with a responsible one,” Dylan fires back. Keith scratches his head, about to say something, but he glances over to Lance. Lance is smiling, holding his chin up with his forearms planted firmly on the tabletop. Keith closes his eyes and places his hands behind his head.

“Yeah, probably not though,” he snides, raising his eyebrows. Pidge officially declares Lance’s other friends to be quite the dorks, even more so than Lance, even. It was hard to come by though. Everyone who hadn’t been sitting takes a seat around the library table, and more students and people start entering the library as it starts to stretch later into the now dewy morning- the frost on the grass having melted by the orange sun poking through the fairly cloudy sky. Hard to see through the library’s closed blinds, but wonderful enough to tell.

Hunk stands up a stretches before he falls asleep in his own chair and goes to point and pick his own books just as Dylan did, while Pidge questions Dylan himself about the mountain of books he had gathered, what classes he was taking, even a few about the band that Lance and Keith don’t hear, as they’re already immersed in their own conversation and waiting for their friends to take care of school things first. 

“I’d like to see you practice sometime,” Lance mentions, spinning his beanie on his pointer finger and trying not to fling it across the room with momentum. Keith, leaning on the back two legs of his chair hangs onto the table and doesn’t think about the statement twice.

“You already do? You come to the practices,” he clarifies, cocking an eyebrow and looking up at Lance through half-lidded eyes. Lance shakes his head and pouts his lips, trying to get Keith to understand.

“No no, I mean just you.” Keith stops, but begins to teeter on the back legs of the chair once more. He picks at the skin around his fingernails to keep his nerves from growing.

“It… wouldn’t be all that interesting. I’d just be playing my part of the music and nothing else,” he says. He grins, wondering if Dylan is listening to continue their playful bickering. “And I don’t need to.”

“You’ve got to know some other things besides your band music.”

“Well, yeah, but-”

“Like… I don’t know. The bassline from Seinfeld. You should play that for me.” Keith’s upper lip twitches and he snorts, triggering a toothy grin from Lance’s end. He circles his hand in mid-air and places a single hand on his heart.

“ _ Serenade me _ .  _ Woo me, Keith Kogane,”  _ Lance says, challengingly. Keith nearly topples backwards in his chair before he grips the end of the table, hard enough to almost have his fingers bust through the wood. “I just want to see some other stuff you play. You’ve played for a long time, I’m sure you’re good.”

Keith feels the back of his neck burn and refuses to look at Lance’s face, knowing the compassionate look he is wielding just by the sound of his voice. It wouldn’t fail to send the heat from his neck straight to his aching cheeks. He just never stops smiling when Lance is around; it’s a sugary sensation that makes him hyper and causes his pulse to pick up, and his stomach to buzz and churn.

“Maybe you can come over and bring your bass? To our place, anyway, now that you’ve sorta met my roommates,” Lance offers, tugging at some hair next to his ear. “Or… I could go over to yours. You said you don’t have roommates, I’m not sure which would be comfortable,” he starts to ramble nervously, wondering if his offer was a bad idea. Keith realizes this and his heart thumps at the idea of playing for Lance alone.  He can’t decide whether it’s the idea of playing for a single person, which he hadn’t done in forever, or if it’s showing off to Lance to make him smile that makes him jittery. But, he still meets Lance’s gaze and tries his best to hide his excitement, or nerves, and kicks Lance’s shin under the table with his shoe playfully.

“Sure. I’d like that. Maybe only for you,” he says, showing Lance that he had earned his trust. And even something as little as that brings out what Keith thinks is his favorite thing to see, what he would miss a shooting star for, and it’s Lance’s cute, heartfelt grin. Lance has plenty of smiles, some Keith is almost afraid of, but this is by far his favorite.

* * *

 

“Hey guy,” Keith hears the voice come from behind him, grabbing his attention. The library groups that were once two were exiting the building as one, and Pidge had made their way up to the left side of him while the others were walking and discussing a subject he wasn’t listening in on. He turns to look at them, awaiting what they needed. “Are you into Lance or something?” 

Keith chokes, about to kneel over in surprise but catching himself. He crosses his arms, hoping to feign casualty.

“No? Well,” he thinks, “As a friend, y-yes.”

He angles his head away from them, not rudely, but because he can feel Pidge’s laser vision drilling holes into his body. Pidge removes their glasses from their face and waves a hand in front of their eyes.

“Huh, even without glasses I can see through your lies,” they say, and Keith furrows his eyebrows, feeling threatened.

“ _ Pidge is kind of an asshole,”  _ he remembers Lance telling him, and he’s starting to see that now. Pidge unfolds their glasses again and tucks them behind their ears, blinking until they get a clear picture of Keith scowling at them again. They snort in reply.

“Sorry, that was probably really rude. You’re hilarious.” Pidge laughs, itching their arm. Keith loosens up, letting out a half-assed light laugh of his own and stuffing his thumbs into his pockets.

“Yeah, no kidding.” 

“You did get defensive though, I could definitely see that,” they pry, raising their eyebrows back at him. Keith rolls his eyes, knowing he isn’t anywhere near ready to be admitting anything to someone he had just met, much less to someone described to be an asshole by Lance himself. He keeps his head facing forward to avoid further conversation, but Pidge leans over, trying to get even a side eye. They grip the collar of their jacket and pulled it up to their chin to hold it there.

“I wouldn’t tell him. He isn’t stupid enough to not realize sooner or later,” they say, and Keith hums, disagreeing.

“He isn’t stupid, but he wouldn’t find out if I hadn’t liked him in the first place, yeah?” he says, peeking at Pidge out of the corner of his eye. Pidge grunts.

“Uhuh. Yep. That’s going to work. Can I see your phone, please?” they ask, and Keith feels as though he is being searched by a cop. He brings a hand to cover the pocket containing his phone in defense.

“...Why?” The conversations and countless smiley faces he had sent to Lance and only Lance come to mind, and he starts to panic. It must’ve been noticeable, because Pidge huffs, placing a hand on their hip.

“I’m just going to give you my number, jeez,” they say. Keith decides to believe them and slips his cell phone from his pocket. Pidge begins to search for the contacts button and tap out their number, Keith anxiously waiting for them to return it. They swipe out the running applications and click the phone to sleep, handing it back.

“You have porn on there or something? Probably worse.”

“Oh totally.”

“Anyway,” they continue, still trying to keep up with their smaller legs, “I’m not falling for your excuses. Lance is pretty damn dense, but I’m not, so,” they say, cockily. Keith puffs, already admitting defeat. He wants to feel embarrassed that they were so quick to figure out, but he’s more annoyed at how weak he feels. This Pidge was feisty when they wanted to be. He’d hate to have to be in the embarrassing position they had put Lance in earlier, as much of a treat that was.

“Again, I won’t say anything. If Lance has told you I’m an asshole or anything, I’m still trustworthy,” they say, and Keith feels as though his mind is being read.

Was he really that readable?

He feels uncomfortable, but remembers the number just as Pidge begins again. “You have my number if you fuck anything up, okay? Remember?”

Keith takes it as a friendly gesture and raises one eyebrow. “Sure.”

Pidge returns the same expression, and Keith feels something stitch in his heart, like acceptance into Lance’s outside life, until he feels a bruise-worthy pound on his back. The blow comes from Pidge themself, forcing a cough out of Keith from rattling his lungs.

“Just don’t be a wuss and talk to him, like, romantically for once. He needs a hint or you’re going to get nowhere.” Keith rubs the back of his neck, wondering if he was capable. He wants to protest, but before he can Pidge continues. “Lance really appreciates you and thinks you’re a cool guy. He’s super happy he has a friend like you.”

“Does that mean….Does Lance,” he glances to make sure the others are still stuck in their own conversations, “You know.” Pidge bites back some laughter and pushes their tongue through their malicious smile.

“You act like a 4th grader about this. And I’m a trustworthy friend to everybody. It’d be douchey to reveal something like that to you.”

Keith’s mouth goes to a flat line, but he nods, understanding. Pidge punches him on the arm, almost making him trip over awkwardly. “Just get him, tiger.” They yank their jacket up and head over to the larger group and discussion, and Keith yells back at them.

“Yeah, I’m the corny one! The fourth grader!” he hollers, making his way over in that direction as well. He doesn’t get a reaction, but he knows Pidge had heard him. He clicks his tongue in an annoyed “tsk”, rolling his eyes. Him and Pidge would get along unironically fine, he feels.

But he wonders how he would ever get Lance’s attention romantically, as Pidge had described.

Pick-up lines, maybe? He had always considered those jokes. He puckers his lips on the side of his mouth. He concludes that Lance would probably laugh at them anyway. He collides with the group’s conversation, earning greetings and questions regarding which side of their argument he would take.

Lance looks relatively well dressed having gotten up early that morning, like he didn’t struggle with laziness at all. Anyone could take a compliment, right?  _ Right? _

Keith starts to worry, but what would be a romantic way to tell him? He thinks this is pointless, getting worked up. He doesn’t know how to get Lance’s attention completely, or, make him feel good about himself. Keith couldn’t even guarantee that Lance would notice his ever so compassionate meaning behind his compliment.

And what would he compliment Lance on? His clothes? His face? His face would be weird. And it wasn’t like he could compliment his body out of nowhere. He was just attractive. Keith couldn’t admit that in the moment.

His eyes trail down and up Lance’s physique, and he feels his cheeks go hot as he averts his eyes away. He couldn’t say that, as much as he wanted to.

Keith curses himself for being such a blockhead, curling his fingers in his pockets, his mind screaming for answer to what he could compliment Lance on. He had to get a start somewhere, why was he getting worked up?  

He glances back at Lance, who’s giving him a confused look that could eventually evolve into worry. He pictures the first thing his eyes caught.

“LANCE! I like your shirt!” He yells out without thinking.

Everyone pauses, Dylan mid-sentence with his hand frozen in motion with his words, Pidge looking up from whatever they were doing on their phone outside of the conversation.

Lance closes the gap between his lips and looks down at his shirt on que, and back up to Keith, smiling.

“Thanks!” He replies, cheeks tinted pink. He reminds Keith of a boy who had just been given a birthday present. And it wasn’t even that great of a compliment. But Keith still mentally pumps his fist in the air.

_ Nailed it. _

They continue walking, the group probably finding the interruption strange, but enough to brush off of their shoulder. Pidge goes back to their phone, but to Keith’s surprise, he gets a buzz in his pocket.

 

**Pidge [ 10:47 A.M. ]**

**> Cool it, dude. Don’t get too spicy with him in public. **

 

Keith smirks at his phone, giving Pidge another side eye, clicking the power button without a reply. It’s a start. Keith’s stomach churns happily, proudly for the rest of the day. The temperature warms, the clouds roll away.

* * *

Keith’s breath escapes him when he feels a jolt burst through every nerve in his body. His room is eerie, and the single window in his apartment reveals it is pitch black outside, aside from the ominous headlights racing along his wall.

He remembers his previous day, beginning with the library-

Beginning with Lance.

Years had passed since what he had happened in his dreams. But that was then, and this is now.

And now he has a shitty dinner still digesting in his stomach, which was churning in terror from what he had woken up from. His throat aches from the ball lodging itself in his esophagus and trying to trigger tears from what he had witnessed in his sleep.

But he bellows a heavy groan instead, making himself breathe and reminding himself it was a dream, and that he was used to this happening. He lays for minutes he doesn’t keep track of. He doesn’t dare close his eyes, afraid of what he’ll see. He erases the scream still echoing in his mind.

Keith rolls over onto his side begrudgingly, slapping around on the floor in search for his phone in the dark, under his blankets. When he feels the cool glass of the screen in his palm, he brings it to his face, squinting through the brightness.

The lit up lockscreen only reads 12:58 am, which isn’t late in his consideration. The only problem is knowing he wasn’t going to be sleeping the rest of the night. He huffs, already bored. He doesn’t want to get up.

He wishes he could erase his thoughts and sleep; if he’s being honest, sleeping is his worst fear. Stuck in a loop, he drains himself just by sitting in the same position. He wishes he had company again.

Keith thinks maybe he could patch up his night like he did his day.

_ Would Lance even be awake?  _ He wonders, staring up at his ceiling in wonderment. The confinement of his room instead of being stuck in the outside world alone brings him security.

Keith unlocks his phone, sending Lance a text message.

 

**Keith [ 1:01 A.M. ]**

**> Hey, are you awake?**

 

Before he can close the screen, to his surprise, he gets a reply almost immediately. 

 

**Lance [ 1:02 A.M. ]**

**> What do u think, we went to the library to study and did exactly not that**

 

He laughs out loud to himself, picturing Lance groaning in front of a textbook at this hour. 

 

**Keith [ 1:02 A.M. ]**

**> We? I don’t need to study, I’m just hangin **

 

**Lance [ 1:02 A.M. ]**

**> You distracted me, now here I am**

**> So yes I am awake**

 

**Keith [ 1:03 A.M. ]**

**> ):**

 

**Lance [ 1:03 A.M. ]**

**> Okay, I’m just kidding**

**> I was on my phone anyway, I’m glad u texted me :)))**

**> What’s up?**

 

**Keith [ 1:04 A.M. }**

**> just**

**> boerd **

**> bored***

 

**Lance [ 1:04 A.M. ]**

**> Boerd and ready to party Keith **

**> Always knows the best times to hang**

 

Keith is amazed by Lance’s ability to stay cheery even when studying in the near dead hours of the night. But he’s thankful, already starting to feel his mood start to lighten. 

He forgets anything that might be negative - that he was bothering Lance or his night terror - and he finds himself getting lost in a conversation with Lance quicker than he can snap his fingers, and that he is tapping his thumbs to Lance for hours until he gets a realization.

 

**Lance [ 3:25 A.M. ]**

**> a AHHH**

**> u g ot me again!!! **

**> i have n’t been working on this at all, allura is gonna kick my ass**

 

**Keith [ 3:26 A.M. ]**

**> Oh shit**

**> She’s scary**

**> You better get working on that**

**> Sorry lol**

 

**Lance [ 3:26 A.M. ]**

**> Nah nah it’s alright**

**> You’re just fun. Too fun. **

**> I like talking to you**

**> You’re like a comfort spot I guess.**

 

Keith swallows, hesitating, but beginning to type again. 

 

**Keith [ 3:27 A.M. ]**

**> I could say the same to you.**

**> But I’ll let you work**

**> As fun as I am**

 

**Lance [ 3:27 A.M. ]**

**> The coolest**

**> whelp**

**> Wish me luck dude**

**> Goodnight!! ;) **

 

**Keith [ 3:27 A.M. ]**

**> Night :) :)**

 

**Lance [ 3:28 A.M. ]**

**> wtf**

**> :) :) :)**

**> dont try to outnumber my smileys **

 

**Keith [ 3:28 A.M. ]**

**> :) :) :) :) :) :) :) :) :)**

**> Work on your homework**

 

**Lance [ 3:29 A.M. ]**

**> fine i guess you leave me no choice **

**> <3**

 

**Keith [ 3:29 A.M. ]**

**> oh gasp**

 

**Lance [ 3:29 A.M. ]**

**> yeah that’s damn right keith**

**> youre such a good friend to me**

**> no smiley can defeat**

 

**Keith [ 3:30 A.M. ]**

**> I feel the defeat **

**> Night, loser**

 

**Lance [ 3:30 A.M. ]**

**> Night, correction, I am the winner**

 

**Keith [ 3:30 A.M. ]**

**> GOODNIGHT **

**> WINNER**

 

**Lance [ 3:31 A.M. ]**

**> there we go ;)**

**> Night, Keith **

 

**Keith [ 3:31 A.M. ]**

**> Night**

**> :)**

 

Keith twists his torso and stretches his legs, having sat in the same position on his phone for that entire period of time. He returns to lying flat on his back, mind fully engulfed in Lance. He was alone, yet he had his forearm draped across his mouth, which was stretched back into one of the biggest grins he thinks he has ever put on. He doesn’t need a mirror to know his cheeks are flushed. 

_ He tried to outnumber smiley faces with a  _ **_heart_ ** , he reminds himself, eyes locked on the ceiling, projecting his imagination.

“What a  _ dork, _ ” he says out loud, laughing to himself, squinting his eyes and slapping his own forehead. He pulls his blanket over the bottom half of his face.

He feels he must be sleep deprived, or drunk on something, drunk on Lance, because the rest of that night and until he witnesses the sunrise reflecting off of the wall outside his window, he laughs and smiles to himself, for no reason other than nerdy ol’ Lance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was written by Muffin!!
> 
> Sorry this took longer than usual! School came around and kicked me down into a writer hole. And Maddy now has the equivalent to a human child ( a puppy ) she's taking care of. She's a trooper for editing the chapters to make them look nice and keep me from getting my tenses mixed up. You should read her other stuff too. She posted a fic that was like 20+ chapters in one day. She's pretty sick and you should check her out. How she does this with a puppy I don't know? She must have writing powers or something.  
> -Muff  
> Hope you enjoyed!


	8. Hours Outside in the Snow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hours Outside in the Snow - Modern Baseball

Jordan’s back shed feels nearly frozen over as they practice.

Keith had tried convincing him to get another heater, but Jordan insisted that 5 would probably be too many.

“ _ Just because you’re in a permanent state of freezing doesn’t mean us normal people are _ ,” he’d said, and Dylan and Michael had to agree.

So here he was, bundled up in a long sleeve shirt, a sweater, and a jacket over that, with a beanie and two pairs of socks keeping his feet decently safe within in Docs as he plants himself directly in front of the nearest heater. If Dylan has a problem with him remaining stationary the entire practice, he can shove it. Keith needs warmth, and he’s damn well going to get it.

He  _ wishes _ he could get it from the blankets piled on the other side of the room, all draped over and wrapped around Lance in varying patterns as he lounges on the small couch by the front door. He has a small heater sitting in front of him, too, but unlike Keith he doesn’t seem bothered by the cold at all. In fact, it seems to be the exact opposite. He’s practically asleep as he watches practice, humming along and bobbing his head with the music. He watches Keith lazily, a half-grin on his face, and he looks like he practically belongs here.

Keith can feel the tips of his ears warming up, and he doesn’t think it’s from the heaters.

Lance catches his eye, nodding at him quickly to get his attention. Keith nods back, making his way across the room to stand in front of Lance, still playing. Lance waves at him to lean down, and he does.

He bends over, nearly resting his chin on Lance’s shoulder to hear him. He can feel Lance’s lips on the shell of his ear, can feel his breath as he speaks, and Keith wills his legs to remain working so he doesn’t faceplant directly onto the couch and make a complete ass out of himself.

“I’m getting hungry,” Lance says, speaking up just a bit to be heard over the music. “I’m probably going to go to that coffee shop a few blocks down for some food and maybe like, a coffee or something.”

“Okay,” Keith says, hoping the music covers the crack in his voice. He can feel goosebumps on the back of his neck. He hopes Lance chalks up his shiver to the cold in the room.

“Do you guys want anything?” Lance asks, tilting his head to look at Keith. The angle is dangerous, and close; if Keith tilted his head just the right way-

“I’ll ask,” he says instead, cutting off his bass half-way through the song in a panic and stumbling backwards. Dylan follows suit, just before Jordan and Michael, who all look at him questioningly.

“Lance is going to get food. Do you guys want anything?”

“I want a venti mocha frappuccino with extra whipped cream and a caramel drizzle,” Michael shoots off immediately. Keith rolls his eyes.

“Just get me a coffee,” Dylan says behind a yawn. “I feel like I’m going to knock out right now.”

“Do you want creamer or anything?”

“Eh,” he shrugs. “If they have those little french vanilla things then yeah. Other than that nah.”

“Alright.” Keith looks at Jordan, who’s already taken to lighting a joint in the chair nearest the heater Keith had been standing in front of earlier. “What about you?”

“Get me a Monster. And a bag of chips. And one of those small chunks of coffee cake they sell there. And then uh,” he takes a hit, offering the joint to Dylan, who takes it. He pauses as he inhales before tilting his head back, pushing the smoke up and toward the ceiling. “Get me a sandwich. I don’t really care what kind.”

“You have the money for all that?” Keith asks, raising an eyebrow. Jordan rolls his eyes, shifting in his chair to pull out his wallet. He digs out a handful of bills, tossing them in Keith’s direction. Dylan and Michael follow. He turns back to Lance, pocketing the cash and tugging on the strap of his bass a few times before sliding it over his head. He sets it on its stand next to Michael’s drums. “Since Jordan’s a fatass, I’m going to go with Lance. I’ll help him carry everything.”

Dylan hums in acknowledgement, waving him off as he tunes his guitar. Lance opens his mouth, probably to protest and insist that he doesn’t want to interrupt practice, but Keith cuts him off by grabbing his hand and practically dragging him out the door of the shed.

Keith lets go of Lance’s hand when they reach the front of Jordan’s house, making their way down the driveway and onto the sidewalk. He moves closer to Lance as they walk, and even through three layers of sleeves he can feel goosebumps from where their arms brush together. It had stopped snowing a few hours earlier, but the snow on the lawns they pass by nearly reaches their ankles. Keith stuffs his hands in his pockets.

“You know, fingerless gloves probably aren’t the best protection from the cold,” Lance says offhandedly, folding his arms behind his head. He laces his fingers together, cradling the back of his neck. “Maybe you should get some actual gloves instead of trying to look so cool.”

Keith pulls out one of his hands, flipping Lance off. “I don’t  _ try _ to look cool.”

“Oh, it just  _ happens _ ?”

“You said it, not me.”

Lance laughs. “Still, though, you’re all bundled up, and you complain about the cold, but your fingertips are totally exposed. That doesn’t bother you?”

“It’s not like I’m touching the snow,” Keith shrugs. “I can always stick my hands in my pockets. It’s not that bad.”

Lance hums, less of a harmless noise and more of a threat, and Keith has barely any warning before Lance is ducking behind him, scooping up a handful of snow and shoving it down the back of Keith’s jacket.

Keith squawks, flying forward onto the balls of his feet as he dances on the sidewalk, unzipping his jacket and fighting to get it off in order to get the snow out from between his layers. Lance stands behind him, nearly in tears, doubled over with his hands on his knees as he wheezes.

“Y-your  _ face! _ ” He cries as Keith throws curses at him, kicking the snow that had fallen onto the sidewalk at his feet. “Your face was  _ hilarious _ ! Oh man.”

“What was that for?!” Keith asks, throwing his arms in the air. Lance straightens out, smirking, one eyebrow raised in challenge.

“Well, you had to touch the snow, didn’t you?”

Keith laughs reluctantly, taking a moment to catch his breath before scooping up his own handful of snow and starting toward Lance.

“You wanna see me touch the snow? Okay. Alright. Come here, then.”

Lance backs away, holding his arms out in front of him as if they’d help shield him from Keith’s wrath.

“Keith, my dude, my guy, listen. Okay,  _ listen _ -”

Keith ignores him, gripping the front of Lance’s shirt and stuffing his own handful of snow down the front.

Unlike Keith, Lance doesn’t move, his hands motionless, processing the ice melting against his bare skin under the thin fabric of his shirt. Lance’s mouth gapes, his eyes closed, falsely relaxed. Keith cups his numbing fingers over his mouth, stifling a laugh.

Lance licks his canines, clicking his tongue and even cocking his head to the side.

“Keith,” he says.

Keith strains a “Yeah?” from holding his breath and snickers in.  Lance tugs the collar of his shirt and ripples it, shaking the partially melted snow out and onto the ground where it started.

“You know,” he starts, matter-of-factly, “I have two younger siblings, yeah? Twins.” He takes a few slow steps forward, Keith keeping the space inbetween them the same by doing the opposite. Keith nods, glancing and planning an escape, knowing what was coming for him.

“If you think you can start a snow fight with me and come out alive, you’ve got a big storm comin’,” he states, picking bits of snow stuck to the collar of his shirt off and crushing them with his fingers. Keith was off of the sidewalk, backing into a little tree planted alongside the concrete. Lance looks up, meets Keith’s eyes, and struggles to keep a straight face.

Keith, expecting Lance to bend over and scoop up more snow, tries to escape by jumping to the side and running away, but Lance fools him. Instead of taking advantage of the fresh snow on the ground, he raises his arm and smacks the branch right above Keith’s head, creating a mini avalanche of snow to be frozen into Keith’s hair for however long they’ll be outside.

They stumble into the coffee shop together, fingers numb and cheeks flushed red as they laugh. Keith isn’t sure if his face is wet with tears or snow, but he knows that he hasn’t laughed this hard in years.

Even though he’s soaking wet, freezing, and will probably become an ice cicle later in Jordan’s shed, he thinks that this might be the happiest that he’s been in a very long time.

* * *

“Uh, where’s the rest of the coffee?”

“What do you mean?”

Dylan raises an eyebrow, taking in the state of Keith and Lance, eyes moving from their wet hair to their red noses to the coffee cups in their hands. He repeats his question.

“Where’s the rest of the coffee?” He crosses his arms. “You know, for the  _ rest _ of us?”

He sees realization dawn on Keith’s face, before he attempts to cover it up with nonchalance.

“Oh we, uh,” he shifts a bit, as if attempting to hide his coffee cup behind his leg. “We didn’t end up going to the shop, I guess.”

“Keith, you’re literally both holding half-empty cups of coffee,” Jordan says from his place in the chair by the heater. He hasn’t moved since Keith and Lance left. “The logo for the shop is  _ right there _ .” He scoffs. “You’re a terrible liar.”

Dylan watches as the red from Keith’s nose seems to spread to the rest of his face. He shoots a look at Michael, who grins as if this were the best thing to happen to him all day.

“They probably just forgot our order while they were off making out.”

Keith makes a strangled sort of noise, gripping his cup so hard that the lid pops off. Dylan bites the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.

“We- what?” Lance asks, his own face growing a bit more red. Keith turns on him, shoving him back a bit toward the couch.

“Nothing! Nothing. Michael was just being  _ stupid _ .” He turns, shooting a look at Michael, but it’s not a threatening as he probably hopes it is, what with his face being bright red and all. Michael shoots Keith a pair of finger guns, and this time Dylan actually does laugh.Even Jordan lets out a small snort as he slides off of his chair, picking up his own guitar.

Keith ignores them, throwing the blankets on the couch back over Lance before stomping across the shed, slipping his bass back on and glaring at Dylan. Dylan grins back before nodding to Michael, who counts out a rhythm with his sticks before starting the next song.

He doesn’t miss the way that Lance watches Keith the rest of practice, or the way that Keith watches back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was written by Maddy, and the snowball fight written by Muff!!


	9. Keystone State Dude-Core

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keystone State Dude-Core - The Wonder Years

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters in one day again! Nice.
> 
> We've actually had this one written out since the beginning, so we're so excited to finally post it!!

“So whose show is this again?”

“Some band that Dylan told me about,” Keith says, shrugging as he slides into the driver’s seat. Lance nods beside him, pulling his knees to his chest and resting his feet on the dashboard in front of him.

“And what kind of music do they play?”

“I’m not sure,” Keith answers truthfully. “I think he mentioned post-hardcore, or alternative? Something with a lot of noise and screaming.”

“Isn’t your band a lot of noise and screaming?” Lance snorts, and Keith scoffs.

“Uh, no. My music is  _ good _ .”

“Ooh, harsh.”

“Shut up,” he says, though the corner of his mouth twitches into a grin as he starts the car, backing out of Lance’s driveway and heading out onto the main road.

Dylan had asked him to come support his friend’s band the other night, and Keith had jumped at the opportunity. It meant he could invite Lance - sweet, stupidly cute Lance - to something other than one of his own shows or band rehearsals. It meant he would get to spend actual time with him, one on one.

Granted, he got that a lot at the diner when they went to it, but it’s not like he can take Lance to the diner forever in order to interact with him.

So when he had asked Lance if he had wanted to come with him to this show and he received (what he’d hoped was) an enthusiastic yes, he hadn’t been able to think of anything else for the next two days.

So now, with Lance by his side as he pulls onto the freeway, windows rolled down and  [ The Specials ](https://youtu.be/z17Josu1r2g) dancing through the speakers around him, Keith is content.

Lance is humming along to the trumpet, drumming on his knees in time with the snare, and Keith lets out a laugh. Lance turns to him, smiling.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Keith says, turning back to the road and adjusting his grip on the steering wheel. “I just didn’t think you knew who The Specials were.”

“I didn’t,” Lance says, swaying a bit to the chorus. “But I do now.”

“And?”

“They’re good.”

Keith’s smile grows.

“I didn’t think you listened to anything other than the same kind of stuff you play,” Lance says, letting his seat fall back so the he was lying at an angle, arms behind his head.

“I listen to other things,” Keith responds. “It would get boring listening to the same stuff over and over again.”

“Yeah, well, apparently you’ve never listened to Hozier’s self titled album for a month and a half straight like I have.”

Keith makes a face. “You say that like you’re proud of it.”

“I am,” Lance nods. “You should listen to it.”

“I’ll pass.”

“Not fair!” He pulls himself up a bit in his chair, pouting. “I listen to all of your music!”

“Yeah, by choice,” Keith says. “Besides, my music is  _ good _ .”

“Roasted.”

Keith looks at him out of the corner of his eye. “Did you just say ‘roasted’? About yourself?”

Lance shrugs. “I can appreciate a good burn, even when it’s directed at myself.”

Keith laughs, pulling off of the freeway and making a left at a stoplight, driving a few hundred more feet before pulling into the parking lot of an old church.

“Okay,” he says, sighing a bit as he parks the car as far away from the crowd in front of the building as possible. “So this... Probably won’t be like the shows I play.”

“Uh, okay.” Lance raises an eyebrow, pulling his seat back up and unbuckling his seatbelt. “What’ll it be like then?”

* * *

Louder.

The answer is louder.

_ Well, louder and more insane _ , Keith thinks to himself as he watches the opening band play.

He and Lance sit at the back of the venue, attempting to space themselves out from the crowd of people moshing and screaming at the front. It’s hard, though, when the room they’re in is smaller than some of the basements that Keith has found himself playing in. It’s only about 200 square feet total, with a fold-up stage in the front of the room and boxes lining the sides. The place is only about half full, with people moving in and out through the open floor to ceiling garage doors on the far left side of the room.

This piece of information doesn’t seem to affect the band onstage as they play, though, as they bounce and scream and practically throw their torsos forward before shooting them back up again in time to the music. Lance watches, making a face like he’s just tasted expired milk. Keith tries not to laugh.

“You’re right, this isn’t the same as your music!” He calls over the band, and Keith nods. “I like yours better!”

Keith’s heart drops at the same time as the breakdown.

They watch as people mosh, swinging their arms and legs and hitting each other as if they were ragdolls. After half a set, Lance holds Keith by the arm, pulling him in close.

“Do you wanna get out of here until your friend’s band plays?”

Keith can feel Lance’s breath on his ear, can hear the low rumble from his vocal chords from such a close distance. He feels something tighten in his lower stomach, suppresses a shiver that runs down his spine, and he nods dumbly, letting Lance lead him out one of the garage doors in the direction of Keith’s car.

“Well that’s definitely something,” Lance whistles as he folds his hands behind his head. Keith hums, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets.

“You’re telling me.”

“What were all those people doing?” Lance asks. “Like, flailing around the room and stuff.”

“Moshing,” Keith says, pulling out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. He pulls one out and sticks it between his lips, fishing through his pants pockets for a lighter. He finds one, cupping his hands around the end of the cigarette and lighting it. “It’s weird, but people enjoy it. I guess it helps them get out pent up aggression or something.”

“That is weird,” Lance says offhandedly. “They could always just have sex.”

Keith chokes on his cigarette.

“ _ What _ ?”

Lance smiles, though it’s wicked and knowing. “Yeah, man. That’s what sex is for. Get out all that pent up aggression and sexual tension you have by just doin’ it.”

“Lance, you can’t-” Keith laughs, wheezing a bit as he supports himself on the hood of his car. “You can’t just  _ say _ stuff like that.”

“Well it’s true,” Lance shrugs. “But hey, to each their own I guess.”

Keith lets out another laugh, shaking his head as he takes another drag of his cigarette. Someone from the venue calls out that the main band is getting ready to play, and Keith puts out his half-finished cigarette on the heel of his Doc Marten, sticking the rest of it behind his ear.

“Well let’s go, then. Maybe we can find Dylan in the crowd.”

But as they make their way back into the venue, Keith decides that finding Dylan may not be possible.

The small room has become packed, people crammed into the space on all sides, stretching to the far back wall. They can barely push their way through the open garage doors, though as soon as they’re inside someone flips the switch to close them. They rattle downward with a clang, and the room immediately becomes five times darker and ten times hotter. Keith takes a deep breath, already feeling beads of sweat forming at the base of his neck. He slides off his jacket, twisting his torso to get a better look at Lance.

His ears are practically numb as the guitar wails on the stage in front of them, and he can feel the bassline running through his veins as the beat starts up. He pauses as he turns, taking it all in, taking a breath and taking in the moment.

He takes in the moment of bliss before the storm, floating for half a second before crashing back down again.

“JUMP.”

And he does, at least a bit, rolling up onto the tips of his toes before bobbing his head and falling back down, the drums beating in time with his heart. He smiles to himself as he feels the tips of his fingers tingle, the urge to play causing them to twitch, to pull him toward the stage to be a part of the moment, a part of the chaos, a part of the storm.

He sways his head in time with the music, closing his eyes as burst of color explode in the darkness of his mind, lighting up the world around him with the noise and the music and the  _ rush _ -

His eyes snap open, and he catches Lance watching him, seeming to hold his breath.

_ Ah _ .

He clears his throat, shaking his head. This isn’t Lance’s scene, isn’t his element. Keith can’t expect him to take everything in the way that he does -- at least not in a cramped space like this.

He motions to the back of the room and Lance nods, eyes wide.

Keith wonders briefly if bringing Lance was a mistake.

He feels Lance grab at the back of his shirt as he pushes his way through the crowd, creating a hole for the two of them to get through. Lance follows behind closely, and Keith can hear him calling out “excuse me”s and “sorry”s to the people they pass. He smiles a bit, laughter bubbling in his chest.

That laughter dies as the frontman of the band onstage yells into the mic.

“You’re all fucking great! Now, when I say move, I want you all to fucking move! Every single one of you, on all sides of the room. As soon as this breakdown hits, I want you to go.fucking. _ wild! _ ”

Oh no.

Oh, no no no.

He hadn’t thought about this.

He hadn’t taken this into consideration at all when he’d asked Lance to come. He hadn’t even  _ thought _ about how small this venue was, or how wild the crowd might get.

He hadn’t thought about the punches and the kicks and the elbows that might hit Lance when the crowd begins to move.

He turns around to shove Lance to the side, to shove him against the wall, even to lift him up and throw him onto one of the boxes on the side of the room-

It’s too late.

The breakdown hits, and the crowd follows the frontman’s orders.

They go fucking wild.

A circle opens up in front of them, the crowd shoving at each other until a hole appears. And the hole  _ does _ appear, relatively quickly, and it expands faster than Keith would like. He’s crushed up against Lance on the edge of the pit, the crowd unrelenting and ruthless against a nobody and a newcomer. The crowd doesn’t stop for anyone.

No matter what.

And no one blinks twice, either, when one of the members of the crowd swings too close to Lance. No one thinks about it when his fist comes rearing back, uncontrolled, and hits Lance square on the face. No one stops what they’re doing when Lance crumbles, eyes rolling back into his head, falling to the floor as the sickening crack echoes through Keith’s ears over the sound of the band.

Everyone does notice, though, when Keith sees red.

Everyone does stop what they’re doing when Keith grabs the guy by the front of his shirt.

And everyone  _ definitely  _ watches when Keith throws his punch, landing dead center on the guy’s nose before he shoves him backwards, roaring that he should be grateful that  _ all _ Keith did was break his  _ stupid fucking nose. _

Everyone clears a path for him, then, as he lifts Lance off the ground, heaving an arm over his shoulder and dragging him to the bathroom.

* * *

“Ow! Keith! Be gentle!”

“Sorry.”

“‘S okay. Just... don’t push so hard.”

“Okay.”

“And stop moping. It’s not your fault.”

“Okay.”

Lance sighs, his breath fanning out across Keith’s face. Keith swallows, gritting his teeth as he wipes at the blood trailing down Lance’s cheekbone.

“It isn’t your fault, dude. Stop it. There was no way I could have dodged that,” Lance says, though he hisses a bit as Keith grazes over his cut.

“You wouldn’t have had to dodge it if I hadn’t have brought you here in the first place,” Keith says back, and Lance hums.

“I guess so. But I’m still having a good time with you, so I don’t mind.” He shrugs, and Keith laughs bitterly.

“Lance, you got knocked in the face so hard that the guy split open your cheek. How is this having a good time?”

Lance shrugs again, leaning into Keith’s touch.

“I always have a good time when I’m with you.”

Keith’s hand stills, and he looks up to meet Lance’s eyes. Even under the half-lit lamp hanging from the bathroom ceiling Lance’s eyes shine, reflecting back to Keith a complete lack of anger. He only finds genuine excitement, and happiness, and warmth where Keith had expected to find disappointment.

Lance lets out another breath, and Keith can feel it on his lips.

Had he always been this close...?

Lance wets his lips. Keith’s eyes flicker down, catches his tongue as it pulls back into his mouth. He nearly whines.

Dylan's words echo in his mind, the question he had asked him after last week's practice. After the snow and the coffee and the laughter that had made him feel like he could fly, Dylan had turned to him after practice and asked him one thing:

_ What do you want? _

He debates with himself as he leans in a millimeter more, the towel he was using to clean Lance’s face fallen to the floor, his hand cupping Lance’s jaw instead.

_ What do you want? _

Lance’s breath stops, and Keith swears he can hear him whisper something under his breath as he leans in a bit more.

_ What do you want? _

Lance’s nose brushes his, he can practically feel his lips against his own, he can’t hear anything over the blood pumping in his ears-

The bathroom door opens behind them, and Lance rears back like he’d been burned.

_ What do you want? _

The person that enters the bathroom clears their throat, taking in the scene before them before promptly turning and walking back out. Keith curses under his breath, turning back to Lance, who’s now standing, looking at his face in the mirror.

“Do you think I’ll have a scar?”

Keith shrugs, unable to find any words.

“Do you think I’ll look hot with a scar?”

Keith chokes a bit, shrugging again. He stands, and Lance turns back to him, smiling.

“Wanna go find Dylan? I think the band might have finished.”

Keith nods, and Lance grabs his wrist as he leads him out of the bathroom. Keith watches as Lance talks, not hearing any of the words over the sound of his own voice.

_ What do you want? _

His heart nearly drops through the floor as he figures out his answer.

_ I want him. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was written by Maddy!
> 
> Thank you so much for all of your interest in this fic. We're having so much fun writing it, and we're so grateful for all of your comments and kudos!!
> 
> We definitely read all of them and cry a little bit over how amazing you all are. Thank you so much!!


	10. Let Me Kiss You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let Me Kiss You - Morrissey

“Well that's good then, right?” Dylan asks over his shoulder as he winds the mic cord around his forearm to pack it in the back of the van. “Now you can ask him out. You don't have to wait anymore.”

Keith snorts, hauling his bass into the van. “Yeah right. This only makes things worse.”

“And why is that?”

“Because,” Keith says, “for all I know he is very straight. Very heterosexual. Not interested in the least.”

Michael laughs behind him.

“Dude if Lance is straight, I'll date you myself.”

Keith makes a face, scrunching his nose and letting out a huff of laughter. “Yeah, no thanks. I'm not going to go from trying to date one straight guy to _actually_ dating one.”

Michael shrugs. “Platonic cuddles are cool, my dude. And I can cook.”

“Noted,” Keith says, “But not necessary. I'll just pine from a distance, thanks.”

Dylan only smiles, closing the doors of the van.

The venue they were at this week was small -- some rundown bar on the outskirts of the city, but was insanely popular and has been used for years. It's nice being able to play in an actual bar, Keith thinks, compared to a house. It feels like a large step up.

Keith waves off his bandmates, signaling that he’s headed back inside the bar to get Lance. The others nod, climbing into the van and leaving. Michael practically lays on the horn as they pull off of the curb, giving Keith a thumbs up as he sticks his hand out of the window. Keith laughs, pulling out his cigarettes and pulling one out. He has it in his lips before he thinks better of it, deciding to hunt down Lance before smoking. He sighs, tugging the cigarette from his mouth and pushing it under the band of his beanie instead, directly in front of his ear. He thumbs the lighter in his pocket, and heads into the bar.

It’s a small venue, with a stage and open floor set up in the far back corner and a bar wrapped around the front entryway. You had to get past the crowd at the bar in order to move farther in, and as Keith pushes his way through the crowd at the bar, he thinks that it may not be the best setup. It’s hot, and sticky, and filled with smells and sounds that he really doesn’t care to know about. He breaks off from the front bar area, stumbling out into the back of the building.

It’s an open patio connected to the building, with a small area of trees and flowers and vines crawling up the brick walls set up to keep the area somewhat enclosed. Christmas lights are strung along the bricks, adding to the small piles of snow that have piled on top of the wall. It’s mostly empty, save for a few people smoking or drinking or conversing to each other in small groups, away from the crowds and the music.

Keith spots Lance on a bench by the back wall, scrolling through his phone, a drink in his hand. Keith grins, stuffing his hands in his pockets as he crosses the patio.

“Hey,” he says, kicking at Lance’s shoe as he stops in front of him. “You’re not cold?”

Lance is in nothing but black skinny jeans and a grey t-shirt. It’s baggy, pooling at his waist, and the collar hangs loosely off of one shoulder. Keith swears he sees a tattoo poking out from beneath the fabric, but he shakes that idea off relatively quickly. Lance looks up at him, a lazy, close-mouthed grin stretching across his face, his eyes half-lidded. He hums a bit before he answers.

“‘Was too hot in there for a jacket. Got crowded. Lots’a people, y’know? Comfier this way.”

He leans forward, swaying slightly, resting his elbow on his knee and dropping his chin in his hand. Keith puts a hand on his hip, a smile of his own spreading across his face.

“Are you drunk?”

Lance giggles.

 _Giggles_.

Keith’s brain nearly fries.

“A ‘lil,” he says, holding up his drink. It’s pink, with ice cubes and strawberries and a tiny red straw poking out of the rim of the glass. “People kept buyin’ me drinks. And I was havin’ fun seein’you play and dance onstage and I guess I didn’ notice how much I was drinking.” His smile disappears, and a devastated look crosses his face. “Are you... Please don’t be mad. Are you mad Keith? I’m sorry.”

Keith can see tears welling in Lance’s eyes, and he drops onto the bench beside Lance, gently tugging the drink from his hands.

“I’m not mad,” he says, his smile tugging at his lips. “You’re okay.”

Lance lets out a shaky breath of relief, letting himself slide sideways until he’s leaning against Keith, his head tucked into the crook of his neck and his shoulder tucked beneath Keith’s arm. Their thighs are touching, and this time Keith’s brain actually _does_ fry.

He wraps an arm around Lance’s shoulders, pulling him a bit closer. Lance lets one of his legs drape over Keith’s lap.

Keith tugs on the collar of Lance’s shirt, exposing a drawing on his back. “When did you do this?”

“Hmm?” Lance tils his head a bit, angling himself to see over his shoulder. He huffs out a laugh, closing his eyes and burying his face back in Keith’s neck. He can feel Lance’s lips brushing against his shoulder, and he isn’t quite sure how he’s still breathing. Lance’s voice is muffled and his voice is slurred, and Keith has to strain to hear it. “A girl. At the bar? Said she was an artist. Told her ‘prove it’. Did that.”

“It’s pretty,” Keith says, tracing the outline of a flower. It’s drawn in blue ink, probably with a ballpoint pen, and it stretches across Lance’s shoulder blade. Flowers and swirls and vines wrap around each other, and Keith thinks for a minute that it’s not half bad.

“Then I’ll keep it,” Lance murmurs, and Keith’s heart trips over itself.

* * *

He lets Lance sleep on him for nearly half an hour as he smokes, watching the clouds he exhales drift up toward the sky above them. He hums some of Dylan’s potential song ideas to himself while he waits, and self-indulges himself by running his hands through Lance’s hair. It’s just as soft as he’d thought it would be.

After a while, though, he nudges Lance awake, bumping their foreheads together and tugging gently on the hair at the nape of his neck. Lance groans, burrowing his face deeper into the dip between Keith’s neck and shoulder, and he laughs.

“Come on, gorgeous. Get up. We’re leaving.”

Lance groans again, dead-weighting on top of Keith, letting his legs slide off of Keith’s lap and his head loll backwards. He slides down the bench, like a 3 year old that refuses to move. Keith laughs again.

“Where’s your car? I’ll carry you.”

Lance mutters something, and Keith leans down to tell him to repeat it.

“Didn’t bring one. Walked. ‘S close to m’ ‘partment.”

“Alright,” Keith says, standing. He pulls off his flannel, draping it over Lance’s back and tugging his arms through the sleeves. Lance grips at the cuffs, rubbing his eyes a bit and looking up at Keith like a kid waking up from a nap. Keith smiles and turns around, bending down a bit and positioning himself in front of Lance, arms out at his sides. “I’ll still carry you, then. Hop on.”

Lance’s eyes open a bit, and he stares up at Keith questioningly. “Hm?”

“A piggy-back ride.” Keith says it as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Come on.”

Lance stands, stumbling a bit, but he wraps his arms around Keith’s neck and lifts his legs, laughing. Keith hikes him up his back, falling forward before catching himself. He adjusts Lance’s weight, marching across the patio to a side gate that works as an exit to the street. He kicks it open, getting them through, and then pauses.

“Which way?”

Lance points left.

* * *

By “close to my apartment”, Lance had apparently meant almost 7 blocks. Which may not have been much for a sober Lance, and maybe not even a sober Keith. But for a mostly-sober Keith carrying a completely-wasted Lance on his back, 7 blocks feels like 70.

But Keith doesn’t mind as much as he should as Lance clings to him, legs wrapped around his waist and his cheek pressed onto Keith’s neck, directly behind his ear. He’s slightly more awake now, humming some song that Keith doesn’t know, muttering lyrics to himself.

“ _Yo sólo quiero darte un beso, y regalarte mis mañanas, cantar para calmar tus miedos. Quiero que no te falte nada._ ”

Lance’s voice is low, his breath in Keith’s ear causing him to shiver. He runs his fingers through Keith’s hair, his fingernails dragging along the nape of his neck lightly.

“ _Yo sólo quiero darte un beso, llenarte con mi amor el alma, llevarte a conocer el cielo. Quiero que no te falte nada_.”

“I didn’t know you spoke Spanish,” Keith says, his voice barely above a whisper. Lance hums in his ear.

“ _Mi madre es española. Papá no lo es._ ”

“I don’t speak Spanish at all,” he confesses, and Lance lets out a small laugh.

“Mom’s Spanish. Dad isn’t.”

“Then why learn to speak it?”

He feels Lance shrug. “In case we go visit our grandparents one day.”

“Ah,” Keith says. “I guess that makes sense.”

He can feel Lance smile, and feels his nose run along the shell of his ear. His voice drops to a whisper, low and rumbling and enough to make Keith weak in the knees.

“ _O tal vez lo aprendí sólo para poder serenar a muchachos lindos con canciones españolas._ ”

Keith trips, stumbling forward on the pavement. Lance laughs again, and Keith hikes him farther up on his back. The laughter cuts off, followed by a shout. Keith smiles, gripping Lance’s legs tighter. Lance settles down after a minute, getting comfortable, and resumes playing with Keith’s hair. He sighs, propping his chin up on Keith’s shoulder.

“I’m glad I decided to just stick to your shows. Yours are always funner.”

“That’s true,” Keith says. “You don’t get beat up there, at least.”

“No,” Lance hums. “Just drunk.”

Keith smiles. “You look so much better at my shows, anyway. I like being able to see you from the stage. You make things fun.”

Lance tugs on a strand of Keith’s hair, and a jolt of heat runs through his veins. It settles in his stomach, and he attempts to ignore the way that Lance runs his lips along the side of his throat. He chalks it up to wishful thinking.

“I like your shows best. You look so cool on stage, Keith. Just... lost in the moment. The music. Y’know? You’re just... You’re happy. And I just... You’re...” He lets out a small whine of frustration, tugging on Keith’s hair again. “ _Eres hermoso cuando estás feliz, Keith. Eres hermoso cuando sonríes. Y me encanta._ ”

“I didn’t quite catch that last part,” Keith says, though he hopes Lance can’t hear his voice shaking. Lance thinks he’s cool on stage, and that’s all he can think about.

Lance just hums noncommittally, seeming to fall back asleep on Keith’s back.

Keith repeats Lance’s words in his head the rest of the way to his apartment, and wishes desperately that he’d paid more attention in his high school Spanish class.

* * *

It’s well past 3 A.M. by the time they get to Lance’s apartment building. Lance keeps trying to press every buzzer on the outside panel, so Keith gives up on trying to figure out which one is for his place and smacks his hands away, telling him to sit on the front steps. He pulls out his phone instead, and calls Pidge.

They pick up on the fourth ring, sounding bitter and ready for murder.

“This had better be good.”

“It’s Keith.”

The line goes silent for a moment, though Keith can hear a small groan on the other side of the line.

“What did Lance do?”

“He’s sitting on the steps of the building and he is very drunk.”

“Give me a minute.”

The line clicks dead, and Keith waits.

Three minutes later Pidge opens the door, their hair sticking out at odd angles and a hoodie practically swallowing them whole. Keith wonders for a moment if it’s theirs.

“Lance.”

The tone of their voice is enough to make Lance sit up a bit straighter, and he sways a bit as he turns back in Pidge’s direction.

“Hey, buddy!”

Pidge frowns down at him, and he panics, crawling up the stairs and using one hand to wave frantically in front of him.

“No, listen, okay, hold on-”

“You’re drunk.”

“No!” Lance says, “No no no nonononono!”

“Then stand up and walk over here without falling.”

“Pidge,” Lance snorts. “Pidge, even if I _were_ sober you know I couldn’t do that.”

“Buuuuut you just told me that you’re not,” Pidge shrugs. “So thanks. How did you get here?”

“I rode Keith.”

Keith sputters from his place on the steps, and a grin spreads across Pidge’s face, as if this were the greatest thing they’ve heard all year.

“You _rode_ him?”

“Mhm,” Lance nods, attempting to stand up, teetering dangerously and gripping to the wall for support. “On his back. All the way here.”

“Keith must be pretty strong,” Pidge says, crossing their arms.

“He is,” Lance sighs. “He’s very strong. And cool. And nice. _Y divertido. Y guapo. Y inteligente. Y perfecto y besable y tan maravilloso._ ”

Pidge snorts. “ _Calmate, Tigre. Él todavía sigue aquí._ ”

 _“Está bien, no puede hablar español._ ” Lance is grinning, his expression rivalling Pidge’s. Keith’s mouth falls open.

“Am I the only one here that doesn’t speak Spanish?”

“It’s useful,” Pidge shrugs. “Learn it.”

They kick open the door to the apartment building, nodding at Lance to get inside. He pauses, though, swaying on the balls of his feet for a moment before spinning back in Keith’s direction. He teeters on the edge of the top step, grinning down at Keith, who stares up at him.

“Yes?”

Lance reaches out, cups Keith’s face in his hands, and kisses him directly on the cheek.

“ _Buenas noches, mi amor,_ ” he says, and Keith can no longer feel his legs. _“Gracias_.”

He turns on his heel, moving past Pidge and into the building. Keith watches him go, unable to move.

Pidge watches him for another half a minute before they follow after Lance, laughing the entire way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _O tal vez lo aprendí sólo para poder serenar a muchachos lindos con canciones españolas._ \- Or maybe I learned just to serenade pretty boys with pretty Spanish songs.
> 
>  _"Eres hermoso cuando estás feliz, Keith. Eres hermoso cuando sonríes. Y me encanta."_ \- You're beautiful when you're happy, Keith. You're beautiful when you smile. And I love it.
> 
>  _Y divertido. Y guapo. Y inteligente. Y perfecto y besable y tan maravilloso._ \- And fun. And handsome. And intelligent. And kissable and perfect and wonderful.
> 
>  _Calmate, Tigre. Él todavía sigue aquí._ -Calm down, Tiger. He's still here.
> 
>   _Está bien, no puede hablar español._ \- It's okay, he doesn't speak Spanish.
> 
> \--
> 
> [This is the song Lance was singing to Keith,](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N-d7Amel4sY) [and here are the translated lyrics.](http://lyricstranslate.com/en/darte-un-beso-give-you-kiss.html-2#songtranslation)
> 
> This chapter was written by Maddy.


	11. Hangover Song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hangover Song-Say Anything

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guess who's back (back back) back again
> 
> After nearly a month! Read this big puppy of a chapter. Get ready to witness Keith's actual death. Not really, he's just a nerd. Lance is dying after those drinks, though.

Lance’s eyes are crusty and disgusting when he wakes up, rubbing them and pausing at the foreign sensation on his hands. He cracks open his eyes, trying to register where he’s at, and when he realizes he is in his bedroom, the bright daredevil rays of the sun poke through the blinds of his window and Lance feels as though his pupils are frying. He covers the top half of his face with his forearm, cringing at the pain of a migraine and getting irritated by the sound of his ceiling fan, that of which is normally relaxing.

His limbs feel swollen and hot, his legs kicking the bed sheets off of his body. The discomfort makes him scrunch his nose, looking down and seeing he was still wearing skinny jeans. And socks. He stares down at his legs and wiggles his toes, face too tired to make any sort of expression before his drags his palms down his cheeks and lays on his back with his eyes shut for too long. He doesn't know the time, anyway.

His mouth tastes of morning breath, and he can see veins popping on the back of his hands from dehydration. Lance has never had a hangover before, but he guesses he has now. He can't swallow his own saliva, and accepts that he would have to go down and get some water.

It doesn't hurt to move all that much, but Lance’s drowsiness and almost magnetic attraction to the bed is what causes him to slide down slowly and onto the cool carpet instead of getting up onto his feet. The carpet scratchy but bliss to the skin on his face, as a tiny gap between the floor and the wall was located directly under his bed, isolating cool air under and onto the floor beneath it. It isn't water, but refreshing for his lazy ass, Lance decides.

He grips the collar of the shirt he is wearing in his fingers, pulling the fabric up to cover half of his face and curling the rest of his body into a fetal position, blankets falling off the bed and draped in messy directions. Lance doesn't bother stretching himself out, and he would rather just sit until he feels better, even when he knows it'll be a while.

Annoyed and uncomfortable, Lance closes his eyes again, sighing heavily, thinking maybe deep breaths would help. And it doesn't cure the pain in his legs and feet, but Lance’s eyes explode, snapping his torso up into a sitting position, energy suddenly shooting through his thirsty veins.

Lance’s heart already starts to pick up speed as if he was playing in a game of Perfection, and the timer was almost out. Around his back and cuffed in his hands was Keith’s red and black flannel, that of which held Keith’s smell of faint cigarettes and...cologne? The smell that Lance’s brain seemed to recognize and react to immediately, causing his mouth to be drier than it was before, even, and giving him a loss of breath just as if Keith were right there with him.

Lance’s eyes seemed to go wide, realizing where he was the night before, why he felt ill. But his memories failed to inform him plenty of things he wish he knew, like for instance, _why Keith’s flannel was on_ **_his own body._ **

Lance tells himself he needs to think straight, go eat something.

 _The roommates are going to give me shit for this,_ he thinks, laying back down and rolling onto his side. He clears his mind yet drugs himself on Keith by pulling the flipped collar to his nose and taking whiff of what he could consider better than the scent of hot cocoa being stirred. He already knows he feels greedy when he’s already taken the advantage, reminding himself not to abuse this gift he has been given somehow. The smell makes him blush, hopelessly wishing Keith was actually there and that they were close enough for Lance to smell firsthand.

He remembers lying in the crook of Keith’s neck as Keith smoked, the sun already down, Keith running his fingers through his hair and calling him “gorgeous,” humming softly and comfortably. Lance swallows, telling himself he only dreamt it, and started his way into the kitchen on raw-skinned feet.

Lance doesn't even make it to the cabinet before Pidge notices he’s awake and in the room, pausing whatever series they had been watching on the TV. Hunk looks up from his cell phone on the other side of the couch, both his and Pidge’s eyes locked intimidatingly on Lance’s lanky figure, which opening the cabinet to reach for a glass. The two have smug looks on their faces, eyeing each other and communicating without words like usual, and Lance can't be bothered to ask why. He feels dead.

“Just take a picture if you're going to stare. Good morning,” he sassed. Pidge shifts to sit onto their knees, resting their chin in their forearms on the back of the couch, facing the kitchen. Lance, now filling his glass with water from the fridge, opens the freezer door and throws out an unopened bag of pizza rolls onto the counter behind him.

“You’re….up early,” Pidge comments. “You sure you want to be eating those?”

Lance looks up from the frozen bag of pizza rolls and over to the clock on the microwave, only reading 8:36 A.M., and he grunts.

“Yes.” He tears open the plastic of the bag, a rip that unfortunately would probably not be resealable.

“Save some for me,” Hunk suggests, but Lance doesn't hear him, starting with picking a few out of the bag, but instead gets lazy and starts pouring a mountain of little pizza bites onto a plate and slamming the microwave door on them, starting up the machine.  Lance leans back against the counter, sliding down to the floor and laying his legs out. It hurt to stand.

“‘D’you sleep fine?”

“Dunno. I don't remember when I got home.”

“You mean when you were brought home.”

Lance flops the rest of his body down onto the kitchen floor, resting his gross feeling face on the comfortably cold tile and forgetting he would have to get up when the microwave started beeping. He hums a question mark, and Pidge looks at Hunk, raising their eyebrows.

“Jeez, you were really drunk huh,” Hunk comments, not having seen Lance the night before from sleeping.

“You must've gotten four hours of sleep at most, because Keith left at 3 this morning.”

The microwave goes off, and Lance struggles to stand up by gripping the counter and pulling his body weight.

“Keith left? He was over?”

“Look at your shirt, hotshot. ….You really don't remember?”

Lance shakes his head, opening the microwave door with less force than usual.

“I guess I don't.” Pidge plasters a _Shit. Eating. Grin. Right_ on their face.

“That sucks, dude. You guys sounded like you were fucking pretty hard in your room last night.”

Lance picks up the plate and nearly drops it onto the floor, the glass being too hot and the intense startle he received taking major parts in his clumsiness.

“What?” he asks, more awake and embarrassed by Pidge’s bluntness.

“You snuck Keith up into your room last night. And you guys were loud. Like really loud. Especially you, it was gross,” Pidge explains, pointing to Lance, who was about to melt into thin liquid and get stuck in the cracks of the kitchen tile. Lance felt like someone was pressing a hot iron to his neck and cheeks.

“Y-y-..you're _kidding_ right..?” Pidge shakes their head, laughing at him.

“Your moaning made the house sound like a haunted mansion. I bet your ass is really sore.” Lance chokes on nothing but his own oxygen, cupping both hands over his face and trying to hide everything. And he couldn't even remember. He must've confessed to Keith and now he doesn't even remember.

But Hunk rolls his eyes, clearly disturbed by Pidge’s bluntness as well. He was basically a knight in shining armor to save Lance just by being honest.

“Lance, they're lying, you didn't..g-get down with Keith,” he says, scratching his arm, flustered. Meanwhile Lance cracks gaps in between his fingers, less tense now thanks to Hunk’s kind interruption.

“Pidge!! You can’t just _say_ things like that!” Lance whines, and Pidge has their kick when Lance’s cheeks are crimson, freckles not even visible, and he walks with the giant pile atop a plate and settles down right next to Hunk. Pidge laughs on the other side, feeling satisfied, and reaches for the plate. Lance slaps their arm away, sticking his tongue out like a child.

“Whaaaat, dude you have a pile of them,” Pidge complains.

“I'm sharing with Hunk because he is a wonderful friend.”

(“Oh! Nice,” and Hunk goes to town.)

Pidge feels shot down, or acts like it, because this kind of thing happened on a daily basis most of the time. They smirk and face forward, crossing their arms.

“Okay, I say a lot of stupid things to tease you but that..was probably not cool. Sorry dude,” they admit. Lance turns his head, not showing his slight surprise, but feels less hot and accepts Pidge’s apology. He offers the plate with a mouthful already, and Pidge is cautious, grabbing only the few that could fit in their hands.

Lance feels groggy still, although more awake, he feels exhausted. He leans into Hunk, thankful he has a teddy bear for a friend, one that doesn't mind being used as a pillow, at that. Hunk only gives a small smile and ruffles the hair on Lance’s head like an older brother, somehow making it messier than it was before.

“Are you feeling okay? How are you?” Hunk says, therefore emphasizing even more that he is the best friend. Lance swallows what he had been chewing slowly and sleepily.

“Suffering. You?”

“Spoiling this show for me,” Pidge pipes up. Ah, they're back at it already.

“I was not, I was just giving you bits of information about what could happen.”

“I could've figured it out for myself,” they argue, and Hunk gives a breathy laugh. Everyone is snacking off of the plate as if the rolls were popcorn now.

“So what happened last night for real? I can't remember,” says Lance, muffled into Hunk’s shoulder but still slightly understandable by the other two.

Pidge has less of a will to embarrass Lance, and tells him the actual truth.

“Keith carried you home around three in the morning, he called me to open the door and let you in.”

“Was I sleeping?”

“No...just...really really drunk. When we were walking up the apartment steps you kept blabbering about how beautiful and great and whatever he was. Honestly it was funny as hell.” Lance gets anxious.

“Did….I say any of that _to_ him?” He sits up straighter, fiddling his thumbs nervously. Pidge bites their lip, reminiscing about drunk Lance.

“Only in Spanish.” Lance raises his eyebrows only slightly, pursing his lips and suddenly feeling itchy, nervous. Hunk is surprised, not knowing that specific detail. He complains that we wishes he would've seen it now.

Lance sinks lower into the couch, the now cooler plate sitting on his stomach rather than his lap. He closes his eyes.

“I….don't think I ever told Keith that I spoke Spanish? It just never came up.” He scratches his head, laughing a fake and nervous laugh. “Is there any chance Keith knew Spanish too?” Pidge waves his question off.

“Nah, you got lucky.” Lance sighs in relief.

“Thank god. Who knows what I could've said for 7 blocks. Poor guy, I should apologize.”

“I don't know, Lance, he seemed pretty alright with it after you got home safely, and when you kissed him on the cheek to thank him.” Pidge is smirking, raising one eyebrow. “You’re a sap when you're drunk, humming love songs while you walked up the stairs.” Hunk starts up even more.

“How come you didn't tell me all the juicy details??” Hunk complains, and Lance swallows, unfortunately leaving his mouth dry. He drinks his water with his head sunk into his shoulders. The thought of seeing Keith again makes his heart want to burst, he doesn't know what he would say. He _kissed_ him?

“.....I’m a mess, oh god,” he says, dragging the palms of his hands down his face. “I wonder if he’s weirded out. Did he look surprised or...scared?” Lance took his hands off of his face and reveals his red cheeks and nose, the color of red wine, similar to what he might have consumed the night before. He turned his head back and forth between friends for a few seconds, until Pidge put his hands down and tried their best to make him feel fine.

“I...don’t think Keith will care. He seems to be very laid back, and I think he took it as a good thing,” Pidge glances at Hunk. “It was actually sort of cute. You should text him and tell him you’re alright.” Lance puckers his lips in thought.

“Maybe…. Maybe I should.” He laughs, squinting his eyes. “I should probably fix anything I might’ve destroyed.”

“Why apologize for something you don’t know you did?”

“Don’t be all philosophical with me, Hunk, I’m tired, I’m gonna go say hi to Keith,” Lance snarks, standing up and stretching. He surprises his roommates by leaving the few scraps of the cold pizza rolls on the plate. Normally he wouldn’t even share, but with Keith on his mind he had more important things to do. He goes back into his room and appreciates the darkness not frying his irises. When Lance shuts the door to his room, Hunk turns to Pidge.

“He’s got it bad. What did he do?”

Pidge raises a finger and swallows, getting into character. They pretend to hold a face, Keith’s face, and kiss the air just as Lance had.

“ _Buenas noches, mi amor. Gracias,_ ” they can’t finish their sentence without giggling. They try to imitate Lance’s voice as dumbly as possible, and Hunk laughs with them. “And Keith,” Pidge continues.

“Hmm?”

“Just waved himself off, but I saw him rubbing his cheek as he made his way down the street. You can guess why he was smiling too.”  

Hunk hums, happy with this information. “I’m too invested in this to not say they’re adorable.”

“Gross, but adorable. This is better than the last time he flirted with one of those girls in highschool” Pidge picks up the now empty plate and walks it to the kitchen sink. Hunk hums.

“Definitely.”

* * *

 

Lance tugs on the collar of his T-shirt, feeling deja vu. He was yet again sitting on his bed, a phone in his hand, extremely tired, and wondering if Keith was awake.

He thinks maybe Keith woke up just as early, but he has no idea if that was the case. But Keith could have not been sleeping at all.

Lance scrunches his nose and laughs to himself. _“Not his lazy ass,”_ he thinks. Lance is oblivious.

He types out a particular conversation starter and sends it. He does this quickly, as the screen started to hurt his eyes after only a few minutes. 

**Lance [ 8:52 A.M. ]**

**> hey what if pizza rolls were the magical cure for hangovers **

**> how hella would that be**

 

He gets a _buzz buzz_ from his nightstand a few minutes later, thankfully. He rolls over.

 

**Keith [ 8:57 A.M. ]**

**> Hey it’s you!!**

**> Morning **

**>...you feeling okay?**

 

**Lance [ 8:58 A.M. ]**

**> nvm**

**> that’s that cure **

**> it’s you**

 

**Keith [ 8:59 A.M. ]**

**> Nahh**

**> My hangovers wouldn't be so awful if that were true **

 

**Lance [ 8:59 A.M. ]**

**> amazing. all you did was speak**

 

**Lance [ 9:00 A.M. ]**

**> my grandpa just called me and said he can walk again **

**> magic healer Keith, so amazing **

 

**Keith [ 9:01 A.M. ]**

**>.....**

**> lance are you even sober rn **

 

**Lance [ 9:02 A.M. ]**

**> Yeah yeah yeah, I am.**

**> Positive**

 

Lance feels a ball in his throat from cringing. What was he supposed to say? Did Keith feel just as awkward, what is he thinking oh g o-

 

**Lance [ 9:03 A.M. ]**

**> Pidge told me you took me home really late **

**> I mean I don't remember but I wanted to say thanks **

 

Lance is tearing his fingernails with his teeth, absentmindedly, Keith’s shirt collar up to his face again and buried under his blankets. He had peeled his pants and socks off a while ago and his legs were singing the United States national anthem they were so free.

 

**Keith [ 9:04 A.M. ]**

**> Haha I've gotta tell them sorry **

**> and look out for you better**

**> begrudgingly though. You're funny when you're drunk **

 

**Lance [ 9:04 A.M. ]**

**> funny?**

**> yeah I don't feel fun rn**

 

**Keith [ 9:05 A.M. ]**

**> I'm sure. **

 

Lance rubs at his eyes some more, thinking his palms will suddenly make the pain go away. He groans, he hates staring at the screen.

 

**Lance [ 9:06 A.M. ]**

**> yea**

**> can I just call you? staring at the screen is balls for my eyes**

 

**Keith [ 9:06 A.M. ]**

**> K**

 

Lance clenches his jaw at Keith’s lazy reply. He hates that. “K.” It could mean anything.

But regardless, he presses the call button, putting the phone on his pillow and resting his ear on top of it. This relieves his eyes and he closes them, hearing Keith pick up.

“Hey.”

Oof. Lance takes a hit. Keith sounds exhausted.

“Jeez, forget me. You sound tired.”

He hears rustling from the other end and he thinks a yawn, as if Keith was trying to keep the mic away and hide his exhaustion.

“I’m always tired. I just couldn't sleep.”

“Did you sleep at all?”

“Mmmmmmmmmmnot really. Michael didn't want to leave last night so I came home later than preferred. It took way too much to get Michael to stop messing with me and get in the van.”

Lance wants to ask what there was to be messed with for, but Keith quickly dodges that question before Lance could even ask. Keith’s tone changes to a lower, more concerned one.

“Did you sleep? Are you sick?” Keith is only being casual, but the pitch and emotion suddenly comes out a bit more smoothly than in normal Keith-talk. He sounds smoother, and it makes Lance’s heart melt. He feels familiar butterflies down in his stomach, because being cared about by Keith was like getting candy at a parade as a kid. He would scramble to get as much as he could, and when he got it, his stomach churned and he couldn't stop himself from smiling.

“You sound fucking disgusting man,” Keith continues, shattering ice Lance had forgotten was there. Lance laughs. With his eyes closed and the smell of Keith's shirt, it was similar to Keith actually being there. Admittedly, it did make him feel better.

“I know. I wish I could remember what happened.”

He remembers what Pidge had told him, wondering if it should be brought up or not. He thinks of a question to ask without making Keith feel bad, and without giving himself away as well.

“You’d...tell me if I er, you and I did something weird, right?”

He hears Keith stay quiet, clearing his throat.

“....define weird?”

Lance’s heart pangs with fear. Which of his roommates was telling the truth?

“Pidge told me you and I fucked last night.”  

He hears Keith inhale and start coughing. It sounded surprised enough to Lance, so he took it that Hunk was telling the truth.

“Yeah, okay, good. Good.  That's what I thought. Glad that’s out of the way.”

“Shit, _yes_ I would tell you that!”

“That’s what I figured…”

“Pidge what the fuck!!”

“I know, dude it’s fine. Pidge just likes messing with me,” Lance found himself cracking up, thanking everything that this conversation wasn't as terrible as he thought it would. Keith gulps, like he was preparing himself for what he wanted to say next.

“Did you…. believe them?” Keith had stopped coughing, sounding hesitant. Lance wonders if Keith could hear Lance’s heart, because it was pounding in his ears. Yeah...he thinks...he totally thought it was true at first.

“...yes? I uh, I did...at first.” Lance swallows, wondering if there was a right and wrong answer, and whether or not he said the right one. Worse than those stupid SAT questions.

“I thought….well...I don't know, I was still half asleep. I was afraid it was...possible? If we were drunk enough.”

“That we would have sex.”

“Keith!!! I don't know? You hear stories everywhere-” Lance is interrupted by Keith’s loud cackling. Everyone was getting a hoot out of this. Lance’s face is burning, and he suddenly feels ashamed for believing it. Was Keith laughing at him? At the idea? It was... better than Keith being uncomfortable, he decides. Lance tries to work up what to say, but he finds he isn't thinking straight. “Maybe you _would_ want to tap me!!”

“Maybe I would,” Keith replies, and he had returned to the more serious, swoon-worthy tone. Lance’s brain goes haywire, and he’s finding that he’s crossing his thighs from under his comforter due to Keith’s...arousingly sleepy voice. Is he...being serious? Keith keeps talking, but not as satisfyingly.

“But not when you're drunk. That would be a turn off.” Lance rolls his eyes. He hears a hint of Pidge’s sarcasm that might've been rubbing off on Keith. No wonder he was laughing. He wasn't serious. Lance pushes everything from the last two minutes to the back of his mind.

“Spicy. A-anyway,” Lance deepens the moment, looking to the side of his head in the direction of his phone, as if he could make eye contact with Keith. “I'm sorry you had to carry my ass 7 blocks to home. Thanks for that.” Keith hums, and Lance wishes he was close enough to feel the smile he senses through the phone. Keith was gorgeous.

“Only for you, Lance. You’re lucky I care about you.” Even more gorgeous. Gorgeous-Level II

Lance smiles, feeling his stomach churn. It could've been that he was maybe about puke gastric acids up at any moment, or that Keith was making him feel like an actual princess. By linking their arms or kissing his hand.  Maybe both reasons. Keith was so cute he could barf, in a good way, if that was possible.

“I care about you too.”

Keith can be heard to have a morning stuffy nose, occasionally sniffling and shuffling in the background. Keith was walking around his place and doing things normally while Lance sat around, sweaty under his sheets. Lance’s tongue tasted disgusting to him, his mouth, and he didn't dare check his breath out of fear he might faint. He wanted to brush his teeth, badly.

Lance kept the phone tucked into his shoulder and against his ear as he made his way to the bathroom to fix himself up enough to feel at least clean.

Keith was crunching on something, eating, and Lance could hear it over the phone. Keith spoke immediately after swallowing.

“You should explain why you never told me you can speak Spanish,” he offers, and Lance makes startled eye contact with his reflection when he sees his mangled figure. His hair was everywhere, and he had bags under his eyes. He is pale. He looks dead. Lance hears a spoon clanking a bowl through the phone. Cereal.

“Oh god, what did I say?”

Keith chuckles with a mouthful and swallows again.

“I don't know! I don't speak Spanish. Like, the whole walk to your apartment you sang and kept switching from Spanish to English.” Lance plays with his hair, occasionally pushing his phone back into place to keep it from falling onto the tile. He’s smiling softly, liking Keith's fascination. It was cute.

“It was just spoken in the household a lot. Both languages.” He hears Keith him, listening. Lance laughs, remembering something he trusts that Keith wouldn't tell. “I also sometimes used it to flirt with people, b-but that never worked.”

“I can see why it wouldn't.”

“Hey! It’s a romantic language.”

“I can also see that.”

Lance stops talking, telling Keith to wait a sec while he shoves a toothbrush in his mouth. He sets the phone face up on the sink and hits the speakerphone button.  The rustling and noises on the other end are amplified by the bathroom’s acoustics. Lance examines himself in the mirror, noticing when he turns around that under thr stretched out collar of his shirt, there were blue markings hidden. He squints, trying to read, and also remember. Lance grabs the fabric at the back of his neck and pulls the shirt over his head, revealing the full picture.

He spits out the foamy white toothpaste into the sink and swishes water from the faucet in his mouth.

“There’s a flower on my back,” he comments, the mint of the toothpaste cold with the air he breathes. The ink is faded a tad, mysteriously. The more he stares at the drawing on his skin, the more ominous it looks. He expects Keith to call him crazy, or not know of it, but he gets the complete opposite.

“Oh yeah. You told me a girl drew that on your back for you.”

Lance hums, wishing he could recall. He tries to reach back and feel it, but he doesn't feel well or flexible enough to try.

“It’s pretty.”

“It is.”

Lance hears Keith is still pretty silent over on his end, a few occasional yawns and less movement the before. There wasn't much conversation, and as much as he liked having Keith there, Keith didn't have as much alcohol in his system to keep him from sleeping, so he tells Keith he was going to shower to let him rest.

Keith does seem hesitant at the least, but is heard stretching and accepting Lance was going to leave. Lance wants to wait until the call is hung up before he turns the knobs in the shower to heat up.

Keith laughs to himself. “Goodbye, _mi amor_.”

“What?” Keith laughs a little more, and Lance realizes he’s being teased. “Oh.” He’s hotly embarrassed again; Keith has an advantage. He takes it as a challenge. Keith? At the advantage?

 _I bet that's all he knows._ Lance hums, deciding if what he was about to do was clever. It never worked before, but maybe….

“ Que tenga buen día cariño. Me muero por el querer de verte y tu cara hermosa de nuevo ,” he speaks, and Keith goes quiet.  Lance is grinning, waiting for Keith’s oh-so-snarky and clever reply.

“...could you, in English?”

“ It translates to ‘later, fuckwad’,” Lance jokes. He enjoys this power, but doesn't plan on abusing it. Taking that risk could be devastating. It never really worked out.

“Ah. A ha ha ha. I'm going back to sleep. I refuse to allow you to make me feel stupid.” Lance can _feel_ the blush on Keith’s face, and it fills his with pride, being able to win so easily.

“Byee Keeeith, te amoooo,~” he teases.

“bYYYEEE,” he hears, followed by the three beeps indicating the ended call. Keith's contact picture of his face zoomed in excessively from a photo he and Lance had taken together disappears from the screen, and Lance shuts his phone off, turning the shower knobs and hopping in a few minutes later.

* * *

 

Only days and a few full nights of rest later had they already began to places again. Lance sat in his apartment throughout that entire time, falling asleep more often and in random places usually, ( some of the more peculiar places like in the middle of the hallway and upside down on the couch were captured on Pidge’s phone for different blackmail uses ), so his days were dull.

Keith hung up the phone with Lance the first day, dropping his unconvincing annoyed act, feeling blissful. This was happening more often than he would've expected, where the two would end a phone conversation and Keith takes a minute to savor Lance’s cuteness or sweet last comments before he covers his face and snorts. It wasn't as stressful trying to hide smiles and giggles when Lance-or anyone else for the matter- couldn't see his face anyway. Keith’s only complaint would be that his cheeks start to hurt from constantly grinning whenever he sits and chats with Lance. Keith’s heart drums happily like Michael’s fingertips on every surface they come across.

He was _definitely_ in love, he knew that, but he wasn't really afraid when he had his face hidden behind a screen, and when he knew his mates weren't around to tease him. He thinks maybe he’ll get over this, that he could be more loose, eventually, but savors the times when he doesn't have to bite the inside of his cheek to stop smiling or even worry about spacing out love-sickeningly on Lance’s face, (which has happened before, during a few band practices, earning him a hit to the garage floor when Jordan took his oblivious state as a opportunity to tip his folding chair over with his foot. 

“aAH, Dude??? What the fuck??”

“Snap out of it.” )

Basically, Keith enjoyed the alone time he had when he had the freedom of talking to Lance whenever he wanted. He didn't call or text him as often a few days after Lance’s drunk incident, just to give Lance time to recover.

On the other hand though, it seemed through psychic band member energy that as soon as Keith had ended that fateful phone call, a few days later, the Michael-Jordan duo decided to sneak up on him and get details. They weren't even in the same neighborhood and somehow, some way, they caught him in his most vulnerable, flustered state. Keith hadn't even mentioned Lance kissing his cheek, ( Like hell they would find out about that. He wanted to be sure to bribe Pidge not to spill that can of beans later. ) or even their casual walk and talk morning phone call. But they caught him.

Keith rolls over in bed that morning, hearing ferocious and continuous knocking like an alarm he never asked to be set. The voices muffled by the wood made him immediately start to narrow down the possibilities of who was standing behind. He didn't bother fixing himself up.

Keith swings the door open on it’s hinges, squinting in the artificial fluorescent lighting of the apartment halls. He takes in the familiar figures in front of him, identifying a big, buff, shirtless Michael and a slouching, quiet Jordan waiting to be invited inside. Michael was grinning the same way he usually did, a can of Monster clutched and bent in without him realizing due to the strength of his hand. Jordan held a cigarette in his ring and middle finger like a 40’s Hollywood star, inhaling like it was nothing. And it wasn't, to him.

“You can't smoke in here,” is what Keith says first, not allowing him through yet. Jordan gives him an offended look.

“They didn't care last time?”

“They did after you left. My landlady is like a dog. She’ll smell it and kick me out.”

Jordan’s mouth goes to a flat line before he scoffs and presses the butt against the metal bar on the staircase, putting the cigarette out.  He grumbles, following after Michael inside, Keith shutting the door behind them. Keith hops straight onto his bed and back under his covers.

“What do you guys want at 9:00 am?” Keith croaked, pulling the blankets up and over his cheeks.

“Keith, it’s eleven.”

“Whatever, my question still stands,” he growls, eyes adjusting to the light as he peers over at his friends across the room. Jordan is already scratching and biting his fingers, needing something in his teeth while he couldn't have a cigarette. Michael on the other hand, though, takes a swig of his Monster, an energy drink he definitely doesn't need, and he knows, laughing over at Keith. The sun seems to get brighter with Michael’s laughter.

“You’ve been cooped up in your room the last couple days, we missed you. Even Jordan.”

Keith raises an eyebrow. “Even Jordan?”

Jordan is scratching the glass of his phone’s screen, emphasizing the oddball personality of his. He makes eye contact with Keith and speaks in a voice that is hard to decide if he is being sarcastic or not. “Yeah, definitely, even me.” Keith rolls his eyes and gives them the reply they want.

“I've just been exhausted since a couple days ago when I took Lance home. And alone time is nice after you're surrounded by people.” He eyes them from under the blanket, poking his eyes out like an alligator in swampy waters. Michael snickers.

“But we’re the exception, right?”

“Oh totally, please, pound on my door every day,” Keith laughs, earning a smile from the other two.

Michael, not being able to keep anything still, looks around the room while Keith proceeds to bury his face in a pillow. Michael spots the tiny kitchen, mainly the sink, and he scrunches his nose at the sight. It’s filled with a neglected pile of glass bowls, some empty and some half eaten from.

“How often do you do dishes here?” he gags, and Keith looks up, hair draped over his eyes like curtains, and he shrugs, flopping back down, sideways this time. Keith was already drifting from his half-asleep state, and further into wide-awake; he would be stuck for the next day.

“Groooooss,” Michael whines, grabbing a dish towel and wetting it under the now running faucet. He grabs different bowls and rinses them under the water, looking for dish soap.

“I was going to do them,” Keith lies, “You don't have to worry about it.”

Michael shakes his head. He isn't mad at all, just slightly disgusted and wishing he didn't have a gag reflex to smell.

“No, I needed something to do with my hands anyway.” Keith smiles. Michael never sat still. Not with ADHD, topped off with Monster, especially. Jordan pipes up from the chair he’s in.

“I thought you were going to make grilled cheese?” Michael nods, and Keith perks up officially for the last time, like a puppy when it hears the word “walk.” His stomach growls on cue, apparently loud enough for Michael to hear across the little counter fit for two people. Michael laughs, beginning to scrub the bowls in his hands with the dish towel.

“Oh please, I’ve been eating cereal for like, a week. I need something hot,” Keith begs, already feeling his mouth start to water. He’s had Michael’s grilled cheese before. Michael likes to put lunch meat and ranch dressing on his, and it’s the most heavenly five minute meal he will ever taste. Keith is convinced nothing will top it in his lifetime.

“Yeah, I will, but Keith doesn't have any clean dishes so I guess I'm doing _that_ too!” he glares playfully over at his mullet friend, and Keith laughs lightly.  Keith was happy his friends visited. He thinks he has a pan in his cabinet? He doesn't remember.

They don't make small talk, because this was normal for them to do. But it had been a while since the last time Michael came over and made shitty yet fantastic food. A majority of the times he did was either at Dylan's or in Keith’s foster home, where Michael wasn't scolded or questioned for his half nudity and got his cheeks pinched instead for being sweet and working the kitchen. Keith furrows his eyebrows at the memory. _Two faced assholes,_ he thinks. His friends weren't over a lot until he moved out.

Michael searches through the cabinets and the cluttering rings in Keith’s sore head, brain. Michael might as well have taken two pots and smacked them together right by Keith’s ear, because it sounded like there was no quiet way to search in the depths of the very few cupboards. He was just obnoxious and loud all of the time.

Michael confirmed his bold personality a few minutes into a conversation about the last performance. They talked about things they did, what to fix, asked questions Dylan would be proud of. It was a way they got closer, and better. But the topic often got switched easily, and while on the night of the party, one of them remembered Keith’s return from Lance’s after a...particularly long time out walking in the night. They had their suspicions.

“-So, what happened with Lance that night?” Jordan is the one to change the subject, surprisingly. Even mister “I don't care” was curious. Michael doesn't even look mischievous, more concerned.

“Yeah! I haven’t heard from him at all. He hasn't texted me,” Michael finds the pan, proceeding to try to understand the funky working stove Keith has but never uses. Even turning it on seems foreign to him.

“You have Lance’s number?” Keith can't help but ask. Michael giggles. Some form of happy-go-lucky evil.

“Duh, he’s my friend too, _jealous._ ” He shakes his head sassily with that last words, and Keith would roll his eyes to the back of his head if he were dramatic enough.

“You know I don't give a shit, I just didn't know.”

“Mmhm. Now I'm curious. What were you guys doing?” Jordan interrogates, “Your face went red a minute ago when we mentioned him.”

“Is that not normal when you like someone, vampire?” Jordan purses his lips and lowers his eyebrows, offended. He stays quiet, until Keith growls and gives him an answer. “He just didn't tell me his apartment was 7 blocks away, I had to carry him.”

“For an hour and a half.”

“Yes. Yes exactly.”

Jordan hums lowly, not really convinced. But he doesn't push further. That’s Michael’s job.

“We're you guys making out again?” Keith coughs, sort of immune to this.

“No. Not “again”. There was no before, anyway.” Michael’s shoulders lower in slight disappointment.

“Keith, how long has it even been? Months?”

Keith pauses, then sinks lower into his pillow. That question came out more concerned, worried. He didn't need to be pushed into realizing he’s been chickening out for over 3 months now. He already knows that. Suddenly he feels worthless.

“.....a few.”

Michael looks up from the hissing pan as the butter melts, greasing the metal up. He already has slices of bread buttered and ready, a few random things from the refrigerator splayed out on the tiny counter next to him. There isn't much to choose from. Keith doesn't know how Michael thinks so intently on this, but does something completely different at the same time. It already smells satisfying.

“I guess I can see why you’re worried.” Michael gives him a hopeful smile, and Keith tries to return it. The moment is too cute for Jordan, however, who butts in and kicks whatever emotional wall they put up.

“No shit. Keith only liked assholes in high school.” Keith cringes at the mention, remembering. Michael reminisces, unlike him.

“Haha, Keith just likes people too easily. And that lead to a lot of assholes.” He eyes Keith from across the counter, and Keith was sitting with his knees pulled to his chest, resting his chin on them. “Maybe sexy assholes, to him at least, but still assholes.” Keith snorts into his knees.

“I was already friends with some, I thought why not date some,” he snarked. Jordan and Michael step back in fake surprise, smirking and showing emotion with their “oooo”s.

“He’s right.”

“Man, everyone at that school was so mean. Maybe Jordan was in his right mind, hating everybody.”

Jordan is chewing on the collar of his black Metallica shirt desperately. He raises his eyebrows in confirmation.

Keith feels maybe he was let off the hook from talking about Lance this time, but Michael’s witty ass only used his good brain to remember what was being discussed before. He continues his point.

“Keith liked assholes. But Lance is different.”

Keith is holding his chin up with his palm, sleepily and dreamily. He contemplates why he didn't just shut the door on his friends. He wasn't about to curl up with a pillow and his phone and show his friends texts from “Lance <3” like they were part of a girly slumber party.

He remembers Michael in his foster mom’s frilly apron and cooking. With Michael, crush talk was a possibility if he didn't do anything about it

“Different because you get along?”

“Of course, Keith. If I'm going to be your best man-”

“A shirtless best man. That’ll be a hoot. You'll look like a stripper with nothing but a bowtie and cuffs.” Keith laughs at Michael, who’s trying to continue. Jordan is snorting to himself at the image as well.

“He is a strippe-”

“KEITH!!!! If _I'm_ going to be your best man, and I will be, I'm going to be friends with your husband. And I'm going to have a secret handshake with him and it’s going to be Lance.” Michael says bluntly, as if he were an excited child already convinced of marriage. “And you'd be the exception. I'll wear a shirt at the ceremony. But not the after party!!” Keith purses his lips and cocks his eyebrows at the child’s play. He lays back down, aiming his back so he wasn't facing either of his friends.

“Alright. Fine. Plan the wedding. I'll propose to my oblivious best friend,” he grumbles. Michael and Jordan were still chipping away at Keith’s outer shell with ice picks, Keith didn't want to throw a let's love Lance party at the moment. The two apartment intruders glance at each other, making eye contact. They have a backup plan, and it might have to take action.

Michael flips and sizzles the sandwiches in the pan in the few minutes of silence, plopping them onto a plate and carrying them to the bed. Jordan joins in, already grabbing a sandwich and using his hand to keep crumbs from getting all over the sheets. Keith sits up and eats for the first time in probably more than 13 hours.

“It’s fun fucking with you, don't get me wrong,” Jordan starts with a mouthful, swallowing mid sentence. He already has Keith’s attention. “But after months of you just pining and not doing anything makes you kind of a wuss.” Keith displays an annoyed look, and his heart plucks with just knowledge. He knows he’s an idiot.

“I mean, I get why you might be nervous but we've already established that Lance is different. If he is straight or doesn't feel like you do he isn't going to care. He’s not going to call you a fucking fag or anything, yeah?” Keith nods. He’s only half listening. He’s thought about all of this before. How Lance wouldn't care, how Lance is sweet enough to understand. How Lance is basically perfect and would take anything for him, his hair his smile his face- Keith’s face already started to color.

The thought never went very far. Too much imagination keeping him from thinking.

“Keith you're a fucking idiot, listen.” Keith’s attention had drifted from Jordan, who normally didn't talk this much. It was as if Keith’s brain knew the time limit for Jordan speaking and stopped listening after he went over his limit. Jordan held Keith’s jaw in his tattooed hands and looked him straight into the pupils with his own blue eyes, striking with electricity.

“You're not going to get _anywhere,_ unless you _do something_. They're just words. Watch.” He holds up three fingers, folding them down rather aggressively. “I. Like. You. I don't wanna talk about gushy feelings because you can say things without getting all worked up. Lance isn't going to give two shits and a rat’s ass if you want to kiss him or not. So you can say that shit, and if he feels the same way, hell fucking yeah Keith. Guess what?” Jordan is rambling, Michael joining in with hums of agreement and confirmation like a rapper’s back up man. “Yeah”s and “That's right”s. He pipes in.

“Guess what Keith, you've got yourself a boyfriend.”

“Exactly, and Keith?”

Keith is bug-eyed, swallowing and refusing to let their words go in one ear and out the other. Confidence doesn't seem to be uprising in his chest, but he feels some kind of understanding.

“If he doesn't, then whatever. You'll still be friends. You'll get over it, and everything will be fine.”

Keith doesn't reply at all, scratching his arm and looking down after his unexpected pep-talk. Especially from Jordan. He knew Jordan had something in him, but he hadn't seen it in years. It was odd seeing how invested and serious his friends were about him and Lance.

His face wasn't red, but he could feel it burning. He nodded over that them. He still doesn't feel he wants to tell Lance anytime soon.

“Keith, I also know it probably won't end that way, because hey,” Jordan smiles. Actually smiles. Him. With the gauges and suspenders and piercings in multiple places on his face. Jordan, who was usually grumpy and ready to kill someone if he didn't have the taste of tar and ass from a cigarette in his mouth. He smiles and glances at Michael from out of the corner of his eye. “I know you'll be fine, because you stole his heart.”

Michael gets just as much surprise in his face as Keith does, nearly falling off the bed and laughing as he immediately breaks into an air guitar solo of the familiar “Keith’s a Thief,” singing it through his teeth. Jordan’s short lived smile had already melted, but he still chuckled through his shrugging shoulders while Keith pinched the bridge of his nose.

Keith had already finished his sandwich and could easily bury his face (and ears) in his blankets at his buddies. He should've felt the hit coming, he thinks. He waves them off like he didn't feel anything.

“Yeah, whatever. I know. I'll tell him eventually.”

“Tell him what? About your praise kink? Hoping to get compliments from him after shows?”

Keith’s breath hitches and he holds back a choke, wide eyed and lifting his face from the fabric of his pillow case. His _what_?

“Wh-what praise kink??” he tries to act confused, but his voice cracks, and along with the crackling of his voice, his neck and face start to become bright red like a glowstick. “It thought this was serious..??”

Michael brushes him off with a “Pffft,” and the wave of a hand.

“You're always covering your neck and ears whenever he compliments you, it isn't hard to see when or when you're not completely turned on.” Keith gulps, intimidated by Michael's incredible observing. But at the same time, he also gets defensive, because now two of his friends obviously knew.

“Th-there’s no praise kink, you're rid-diculous,” he mumbles nervously, which squeezes a laugh out of the two. Keith feels crimson, and he is. “Sh-shut up!! Why do you guys just, know so much???”

The two shrug simultaneously. “You're just easy to read I guess.” Jordan is nodding along with him. And Keith is, undoubtedly, frustrated.

“You've always just assumed shit-”

“And we've been right.”

“You just _assumed_ I had something for Lance, my friend-”

“We’re not wrong, Keith.”

“I've never _told you_ I like Lance, I've kept that to myself-”

“Soooooo you just admitted you do. Like Lance. We’re still right.”

Keith is only rambling his frustrations, running his fingers through his hair and letting the distant pining get to him. He was missing Lance, and he never even had him. And his friends were reading him like a drama packed teen magazine. Why were they getting themselves into this?

He stops, hands weaved into random pieces of hair on his head.

“Is this why you came.”  

“Maybe a little. It’s been way longer than we expected.”

(“Honestly Keith I just came for the grilled cheese. I didn't want this shit to happen.”)

“So you came to dig into this. My, my business,” Keith stutters. Michael gets an anxious look on his face, raising two hands in surrender parallel from his chest and waving them, signalling Keith he has the wrong idea.

“Nononono, not that, Keith my dude. I kind of wanted to,” Michael lightly pats the side of Keith’s face with his palm, “smack you out of it, maybe. Tell you to make a move because Lance is an idiot and won't ever catch on.”

“You’re an idiot. Maybe I don't want him to know.” Michael hums, annoyed and offended at his help being rejected.

“Jordan, grab his phone.” Keith whips around to his nightstand on reflex, but he hesitates, and Jordan had already gotten off the bed and crept towards it. Jordan grips the phone in his hand as Michael wraps an arm around Keith’s torso, pinning Keith’s arms to his chest. Keith is struggling and heaving, but the muscles Michael always seems to be bragging about are being put to use, and Keith was no match for them. Jordan unlocks his phone with his saved fingerprint, and taps on things Keith can't see. Michael speaks and sounds actually super hurt.

“I hope I'm not hurting you, I didn't want to do this.”

“We agreed if you were being an asshole we would just text him for you.”

Keith is straining to be released and take the phone away, read what Jordan was doing, and his face was growing _extremely_ hot, especially when Jordan laughs at something. And Keith already knows it’s about the crude heart in Lance’s contact name.

“Hey, look at this,” he shows Michael, who was still bent over on Keith, and Michael smirks. Keith has his head lowered and can see the “ **Lance <3**” out of the corner of his eye. Michael calls it cute, and Keith, not being able to cover his face with his hands, let's his bangs hang in front of his face and cover his embarrassment like blinds on a window.

“I'm pretty sure this is illegal. Impersonation. Using my identity.”

“You do plenty of illegal things too. Jordan, ask him to the park.”

Keith whines, still begging to be let go, pathetically. Jordan moves his thumbs on the screen and types out a message.  It doesn't take long-Jordan probably didn't put much thought into it anyway- and he turned the phone around to allow Michael to view it.

**Keith [ 11:48 A.M. ]**

**> yo. walk in my neighborhood park. u and me. one pm? **

Keith grits his teeth and cringes as his eyes trail the message. He looks, and it has already been sent. He was ready to accept death.

“You could've at least made it sound like me.”

“I'll send one of those smileys. You seem to like sending those to him.”

Keith wrestles enough strength to pry one of his arms out the second Jordan finishes, but before he can swat the phone, Michael slaps Keith’s arm down with his own. It looks like an uncomfortable version of twister where Michael is holding Keith’s limbs in odd places. Jordan steps away untouched, laughing sadistically and tapping his stubby fingernails on the back of the phone.

Keith is closing his fingers into fists with annoyance, mumbling how he was going to kick both of their asses through a clenched jaw. He already knows he’s over with, and Lance was probably reading the message while he sat in defeat.

“Can you let me go now.”

“No. Not until he answers.”

Keith groans. Michael's weight was heavy on top of him, and also really uncomfortably hot, meaning he could feel sweat beading from their combined body heat. The three stand quietly aside from Keith’s monotone requests to be put down, replied to with negative responses in sync.

“Let me go.”

“No.”

“Let me go.”

“No.”

“You already sent the message.”

“We can't trust you.”

“Let me go.”

“No.”

Just before Keith was going to complain about abuse, coincidently the three are silent when the phone buzzes in Jordan’s hands. 6 eyes lock on the phone like missiles, none of them saying a word. Jordan stays frozen in place, moving only his eyes over to the lit glass screen.

“It’s Lance.”

Keith fills with more adrenaline, but instead of using it to escape the cage of Michael’s freakish arms, he starts to raise his voice.

“Well no _shit_!!! What did he say?” Keith’s voice cracks, and suddenly he feels excited. He’s kicking his legs towards the floor in attempts to stretch and see the phone himself, and Jordan snorts, looking down on him like he owns authority.

“He said he’d love to.”

Keith isn't convinced. Any trust he had in the morning for his friends was gone. “Show me.”

Michael loosens his grip, and Keith snakes his free arm out to rip the device from Jordan’s hold. He reads the message in eye-bulging panic.

 

**Lance [ 11:52 A.M. ]**

**> Heck yeah!**

**> I’d love to :0**

 

Keith swallows, still half way under Michael, who was audibly vocalizing his interest in a soft “aww”. Keith flicks his thumb upward, rereading the messages over for final confirmation. His heart is beginning to thump faster, and ideas and possibilities start to warm in his head, both good and bad. But mainly good. Keith already starts thinking about what he wants to say and do when he gets there, or picks up Lance, or sees Lance, he doesn't know the plans, but he’s already thinking ahead excitedly. He decides being held might not have been a bad thing. Until.

“shIt!!-” he shouts, using his free arms to pry himself away, earning a hard hit to the crummy apartment carpeting beneath him. “I’m seeing him at _one_ I haven't _showered_ shit shit shit -” He coughs from knocking the wind out of himself, forgetting about his friends and crawling to the tiny closet across from his dresser. The multiple empty hangers inhabiting the space makes him huff in determined panic, earning comments he doesn't listen to about how he’s a mess.

Keith picks up the nearest shirt on the floor and smells it, not noticing anything funky, and darts to the bathroom.

He shouts at his friends to “Go!! You got me into this, now let me deal with it.” Keith tries to prepare for surprises, don't get him wrong, but he wasn't prepared for something he didn't plan.

Michael and Jordan purse their lips in entertainment, alone on Keith’s bed while they already hear Keith running water and multiple clunks of what sound like soap bottles hitting the shower floor, immediately followed by a bellowing string of cusses. The two laugh and almost high five- Michael raises a hand, but doesn't get a smack in return from his careless friend. They leave and shut the door behind them, leaving Keith to throw the dirty plates into the sink for later, Jordan quickly reaches into his pocket and flicks the half empty pack of cigarettes open with his fingers.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a little more Spanish in here, as you can see! Translations were made using Google Translate, so please please feel free to correct if there are many mistakes! It is my only resource ;w;'''
> 
> "Que tenga buen día cariño. Me muero por el querer de verte y tu cara hermosa de nuevo." - "Have a good day, sweetheart. I can't wait to see your beautiful face again."
> 
> And "Te Amoooooo" is just "Love youuuuu~~" 
> 
> This chapter was pretty dang long, and it was actually meant to be longer, but I went a little overboard, ahaha. But that also means that I only cut things off of this chapter, things yet to come.... hopefully, if school doesn't plague me like it has been in the last 3 weeks, I should have yet another chapter out. Actually, two. No matter the time it's even posted, next update will be 2 chapters! :) We'll see you then, things are starting to move a little more rapidly, hm?
> 
> This chapter was written by Muffin!


	12. What's New Pussycat?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What's New Pussycat - Tom Jones

Keith doesn't know what the hell he’s doing, why he is going along with his friends’ plans, or why he expects everything to lay out in front of him like a buffet platter.

He sits in the park, swishing himself from side to side on the chillingly cold metal of the merry go round in the playground abandoned for the winter. Already late November, the first snowfall had already passed through it’s first cycle and melted, leaving the ground to wait for a fresh precipitation once more. The air is chilly, but not as cold while the Earth isn’t isolated in snow.

Keith’s boots leave footprints in the wet grass as he digs his heels anxiously into the mud. His gloves keep his hands from turning numb as he grips the bars of the playground device, waiting in ominous silence with only the sound of the metal shrieking around the screws of the merry go round. He might look lonely, tired, and waiting for excitement, but it’s impossible to tell from the outside that his thoughts are racing.

He asks himself tons of things. The only times we was ever alone with Lance, really, were the diner and car rides. At least so far. He had music and food to distract him, then. Now what?

Lance is taking a long time to get here. Keith doesn’t mind, or complain, but still checks his phone multiple times to check the time. He thinks about what he’ll say, or what he’ll do with Lance. What did friends do at the park, over twenty years old? They’re clearly too old to ask to be spun or pushed on the swing. Walking…. Talking…

Last time they did something remotely similar he had gotten a peck on the cheek that smelled like booze, but his heart still flutters at the thought. Keith feels like he could touch his cheek and feel the ghost of Lance’s lips still lingering. But Lance wouldn’t remember. Keith doesn’t think he does, and doesn’t want to mention it.

Keith’s brain fuzzes with emotion. He loves seeing Lance ramble about nonsense, but he was going to have to say something, too, eventually. He curses his friends, knowing they’ll never hear him.

His hair is still slightly damp from when he ran out the door to get to the park before Lance did, shirt sprayed with whatever he thought might smell fine, as well as slightly embarrassed by how much he actually cared. The tips of his hair were stiff from the cold air. He prays his immune system will stay intact while he bends and loosens his bangs with the tips of his fingers.

“Hey,” a voice says, making him jolt and spin the merry-go-round on it’s axis a few inches with the push of his feet. Keith lets go of the pieces of hair draped over his face, uncrossing his eyes to see and looks upward to see Lance. Suddenly his nerves start to sprint even faster in the race towards flustered awkwardness, as if he hadn’t seen Lance in a long while, or even heard his voice. His heart starts to pound harder, happier. Lance’s eyes, which are filled with endless galaxies and exploding stars lighting his sight, already give Keith a little more confidence.

He’s bent over, looking into Keith’s own eyes, laughing and mentally insulting Keith’s absentminded hair-playing. Keith scrunches his nose and twitches his upper lip into a grin, shoving Lance away with his palm pressed onto his forehead. Their cheeks pinken on cue, already falling harder for each other’s laughter as if it were routine.

“You’re so mean, Keith, so much disrespect.”

“Uh huh. I’m just, terrible.”

Lance scoffs, offended by Keith’s lack of arguing. Of course Keith wasn’t mean, Lance knows. But Keith had to argue. Why else would he be Lance’s best friend and rival?

Lance will have to take a different approach. He winks an eye and points a finger at Keith’s nose, smirking.

“Alrighty, Snooty McEmo, you’re not terrible. You’re the best friend in the world.”

Keith’s heart pangs like someone smacking a church bell with a mallet. He hears Michael’s voice echoing like the bell in his head, ringing.

_Praise kink, praise kink, praise kink-_

He easily manages to keep his cool, though. He scratches his thumb with his fingers, wondering if Lance is able to notice his ticks as well, his face starting to burn at the thought. He hopes not. Lance was smarter than he had credited him to be.

Keith realizes he needs to reply.

“A-am I now? You changed your mind?”

Lance’s smile evolves into a slightly bigger one, and he leans back in confidence. Keith might choke.

“If we’re going to be frenemies, we have to disagree on things. If you think you suck ass, then I think you’re perfect.” Lance pauses -- or hesitates, maybe. “Even your frozen hair. Except you _do_ have a mullet in the 2010s.”

Keith laughs softly, pushing his hair behind his ear on instinct. It makes him cringe internally when he realizes he’s basically a girl with a massive highschool crush. Keith may as well have twirled his hair around his finger or pinched his own ear, giggling.

Wasn't he the one who invited Lance out? Why was Lance taking over?

Keith can't keep his eyes in one place. It makes him want to hurl and Lance is just walking beside him. Leaves on the ground are far after dead, browning, but still fading red. They don’t crunch, but what they _do_ do, crazily enough to make Keith mesmerized, is compliment every feature of Lance’s colorful face, dark skin and hair and deep blue eyes similar to the ocean, looking calm but powerful enough to strike Keith’s heart with a couple of arrows.

He still feels as though he is going to freeze into a popsicle, layered in multiple jackets and a red floppy beanie, thankfully covering his ears and most of his head. Even after the first snow incident, he stubbornly wears his fingerless gloves on his hands and keeps his fists curled in his pockets to keep warm. His hand longs for a partner, fingers twitching with belief that if he were to tap Lance’s wrist and hold his hand, their fingers would slip and intertwine together perfectly like a two piece jigsaw puzzle.

He examines Lance, who’s quieter after finishing his first little ramble, checking to see if he would be warm enough. Keith also double checks the layers he is wearing, wondering if there were a problem with Lance getting cold, whether he would be able to give up one of his shirts for Lance’s benefit. Handing drunk Lance his flannel gave him some sense of pride or innocent ownership, like he was leaving a mark on Lance. It made his heart stumble. Fuel for thought, or conversation.

“Hey, do you still have my flannel that I gave to you?” Keith keeps a close eye on Lance’s expression to see if it changes, to see if Lance recognizes what he’s talking about. There was a chance Lance wouldn't have the slightest memory. Funnily enough, though, Lance’s eye glints nervously, and the corner of Keith’s mouth twitches before he bites back a smirk. Lance is aware.

But Lance builds a cement wall in record time, not ready for Keith to dig into those feelings yet. There wasn’t any way Lance would be admitting to such things. It's obvious to Keith, but Lance is only bluffing.

“W-what flannel?” Lance stutters, trying to feign casually but failing miserably. Keith continues, pushing Lance further.

“The one I gave you while I was carrying you?” Keith asks, rolling his tongue in his cheek, extremely entertained. Lance scratches his arm through his sleeve, averting his eyes and acting as though he’s searching his memory. He’s very unconvincing, but Keith shrugs it off, barely worried about his original question anyway. He'd rather appreciate Lance being cute for him.

“Oh yeah. I woke up with it on, and I was really sweaty so took it off without thinking. But Pidge told me you gave me a shirt and I didn't think about it again.” Lance makes eye contact with Keith, somehow making his lie the slightest bit believable.

Keith is bites his tongue, already satisfied with Lance’s poor judgement on how to act cool in front of him. Lance goes quiet, praying the conversation is over. And Keith _was_ about to let Lance go unharmed, until he stops in the middle of a breath of crisp, early winter air.

Keith turns when he hears Lance zip his jacket up a little further than it already was. His chin is completely hidden under the collar of his coat, his cheeks blooming with color nervously, and he tries to ignore Keith’s suspicions of him looking like a Boo-bah and burying the entire lower half of his face. Lance turns his head away, pretending to focus intensely on the cracks in the sidewalk.

It was such a small act, but the sound of the zipper was soft, like Lance wanted it to go unnoticed. Keith can't help but feel suspicious. He stops walking and pulls his hands out of his pockets to reach for the collar of Lance’s jacket.

Lance breath hitches in panic, and he chops Keith’s wrist away like a half assed ninja. Keith winces, sucking on the bruising side of his hand. He runs his thumb over the tiny injury, surprised, looking back up in Lance’s direction.

Lance still has his hands in ready position, guarding what was under his jacket, panting through the fabric of his collar and staring at Keith wide-eyed. He was exposed. Keith stops, licks his canines, and pretends he is about to say something. Lance tunes his ears in like radar, searching for sarcasm, or worse, actually hurt feelings.

“Lance,” Keith asks casually, “what do you have under your jacket?”

It’s as if multiple red paintballs are aimed and shot at Lance’s ears and face, and he stumbles.

“N-nothing, obviously… I'm just cold.” Lance swallows, while Keith closes his eyes and cocks his head, fiddling with his hurt hand. Lance balls his karate hands into readied fists, not planning to hurt Keith, but rather block him away.

“No, not obviously, you’re hiding something.”

“You’re just being paranoid! All I did was zip up my jacket,” Lance grips the sides of his collar with his fists in security, blowing a tuft of his hair up from his forehead. “You weirdo.”

Lance’s eyes trail back to Keith’s direction, and they widen like an owl’s.

Because Keith is coming in with a bulldozer to knock down his cowardly brick wall.

Keith lunges at Lance playfully, trying to grab the collar of his shirt from his grasp, leaning across his body while Lance bends over and crouches into a standing fetal position. Shouts of shameless protests don't stop Keith from laughing and pulling at Lance’s clothes.

“What do you have on?”

“No!”

Keith is on his tiptoes, leaning over Lance at different angles while Lance gives himself away even more by whining loud enough to attract the dogs taking walks with their owners nearby. Keith is searching for a reason to tease, seeing if he could pull Lance’s shirt down from the back.

“Was someone over last night? Do you have hickeys or something? Lance-” Keith finds himself not being able to breathe from laughter.

Lance, now instead of protesting and whining, is yelling continuously and shouting “LALALALLALLALALLA-” like a child trying to block out all other noises around them.

Keith snorts, becoming weaker and finding it harder to turn Lance over from laughing hard enough.

“Lance- just- oh my god- Lance show me, I'm your friend-” he interrupts himself multiple times, and Lance still pushes back every attempt Keith makes with his elbows. Lance shouts something about jealousy, but Keith ignores it, not taking his own words about the hickies seriously.

Keith eventually grabs Lance’s sides, tazing him with two fingers on each hand and poking him where he’s ticklish. He flips Lance around while he’s vulnerable, biting his tongue to stop himself from laughing and his heart from fluttering at Lance’s flushed face.

He looks like a timebomb, and he about explodes when Keith unzips the top of his jacket down to the middle of chest. He feels some pride overtake him, having had practiced wrestling with his friends. Lance let himself go limp in defeat, using a hand to cover his face, waiting for Keith to drop him.

Keith raises his eyebrows, somehow preventing some heat from traveling to his cheeks. The black and red checker-like pattern all wrinkled on Lance’s chest startles him, and his first thought is how much of a blockhead he is for not expecting _his own shirt_ to be hidden under Lance’s jacket.

The stitching is store-bought, but he can see love and shameless obsession weaved through each thread. His mind trails so easily, and it’s obvious. He expected hickies, or bruises, or... or something other than the flannel he had given Lance the other day.

Keith doesn't let go, processing his mistake, trying to comprehend why Lance would lie. Hickies stay on his mind, fully understanding now that his shirt was the better route, and if Lance - sweating, flustered Lance - had hickies trailing down his neck along with his twisted red flannel-

Keith bites his lip to prevent any blood from traveling to his lower body, and he sits Lance down gently, showing no offense. He turns his head and lets Lance walk over to curl up on a bench nearby. Lance buries his face in his knees, pulled to his chest, groaning.

Keith pushes aroused thoughts to the back of his mind, watching Lance act pathetically dramatic and defeated, embarrassed. He feels some guilt for exposing Lance like he was about to strip him down in the middle of a bike path, but what overflows his head is Lance’s childlike behavior, and he snorts, making his way to the bench and laughing as he settles there. He looks down at the dirt, making crude circles with the rubber edges of his heels in the dust.

“I honestly just wore it because it was cold and I needed layers,” Lance lies, and Keith snorts again, shaking his head. Lance _needs_ to smile at Keith’s gross laughter, but he still cracks his voice in playful complaining. “It wasn't any of your business, Keith!!!”

“But it is, idiot, that’s my shirt.”

“That’s irrelevant! You invited me out in the cold, on a super duper romantic and heartfelt afternoon walk in the park as true pals, and I needed warmth!!” He pounds his chest once with his fist. “I need warmth, Keith, I need nourishment and love.”

Keith, at loss for words at Lance’s absolute ridiculousness, has to lean back on the bench from kneeling over and holding in his laughter too much. He sighs out the rest of his oddly warm and radiating happiness, cradling the back his head in the crooks of his fingers, arms behind his head.

Lance sprawls out again, the back of his head hanging over the back of the bench and his legs straight out onto the ground in front of him like a starfish. He laughs, too, both comfortable and refreshed from their messing around to erase any awkwardness from before.

Keith turns his head to the side, taking in Lance with his jacket now half stripped from his body as he looks up into the clear patches of sky poking through the elderly trees of Keith’s old, woodsy neighborhood. It’s dark, almost gloomy, because the sun is often blocked by the tall and long lived canopy of trees.

However, with the autumn leaves nearly finished falling from the trees, the oranges and browns clutter the grass, helicopter seeds crunching under their feet. Although it is chilly, the sun pokes through bare mazes of branches above them, calling Keith to his side, giving him a view of the most gorgeous guy he had ever met.

Keith takes in the beautiful picture, Lance’s dark skin accented with the reds and oranges surrounding him, on him, in the form of his shirt. Although it’s late into autumn, pretty and rich crimson roses bloom under Keith’s faint freckles at the sight of Lance sitting peacefully in his shirt, windchill losing its aggressiveness and running its fingers through Lance’s hair.

Lance removes his jacket completely, just to cool off, sweating under his multiple layers. Keith thinks about Lance in his shoes, a band t shirt, maybe. Or bareback, flower tattoo inked and permanent on his skin and signifying their memory from their night at the bar.

He wishes he could have that.

It’s all he could want: the feel of Lance’s lips on his, or even just the exciting jolt of electricity he would get from Lance holding his arm, or the inside of his leg, or interlocking their pinkies, even.

Brushing shoulders from walking closely to each other was starting to get old. He wants Lance’s fingers, he wants Lance’s sharp collarbone and perky personality. He wants Lance, every little piece of him.

The thought makes Keith clear his throat. That shirt of his on Lance was making him think weird things. He needs to swallow and tear his eyes away before Lance stops whatever he’s doing and questions Keith for his awkward staring.

“Why did you lie about my shirt?”

Lance stays oblivious.

“Hm?”

“Why would you hide a shirt from me?”

Keith doesn’t know whether or not to be hurt over such a stupid thing, and he grits his teeth when he realizes that he’s made Lance concerned as well. Lance sits up straight, clearly worried about Keith being hurt that he was lied to.

Lance sighs lightly into his knees, ears turning red all over again. He feels foolish and tries to muffle his words in his jeans, as if it could prevent Keith from hearing what he says next.

“I didn’t really want to give it back yet. Uh,” he fiddles with his thumbs, wrapped around his curled up legs, holding himself up on the wood of the bench. “I guess… I guess having your shirt is super comforting. And it smells like you, so when I didn’t see you for a while I-”

Lance stops talking and laughs at himself. He brings a hand to his mouth and bites the side of his pinkie, wanting to melt and disappear through the slabs of wood and into the cracks of the sidewalk. His heart is racing, and he doesn’t dare look to his side, as Keith’s big purple eyes watch with interest. He can’t stand being in that vision, so he splutters after not being able to think of anything else.

“Y-you can have it back if you want. I mean, not right now because I’d have to take it off. It’s my only shirt right no-”

“Go ahead.”

Lance feels as though a baseball hits his throat, and instead of avoiding his gaze, he makes startled eye contact with Keith, not able to think of a reply.

“Wha..”

Keith waves his hands in front of him, signalling a stop and shaking his head, flustered.

“I-I mean, go ahead and keep it. Or... take it. As long as you want.

“You sure?”

“Yeah. I… I like seeing you wear it.” Keith rubs his hand on his neck. The words are blunt, but they stab sharply into Lance’s mind, taking his ability to think.

There’s an awkward silence, and while Lance is busy basking in relief and pulling everything he’s wearing tightly for warmth, Keith continues.

“Uh, I mean, you look super good in it,” he says, not really knowing how to cover his intense fondness.

The thoughts in Lance’s brain throw a festival. Fireworks, carnival rides, cotton candy, everything. The lights on the rides spell “KEITH THINKS THAT WE’RE HOT”. Blimps fly by with the same words, with some colorful sky writing to match.

Lance keeps a straight face as he responds. “Good. I'm sure I'd look even hotter with it off, but it’s freezing.”

Keith closes his eyes and snorts. Any conversation was a good one with Lance.

He flattens his lips in thought, checking off things he was positive he wasn't ready to do yet, things his certain friends probably expected him to do on their last minute walk. He wasn't going to grab Lance’s hand or kiss his cheek or even worse, _talk to him_ about his situation, because he wasn't about to drag Lance out in the cold and then chase him away. He was stuck in the park with nothing much else to do aside from sit and talk on a bench. He purses his lips. How lame.

Lance leans forward, putting his weight onto his legs. He has a concerned look on his face, his eyebrows pulled together. “Are you okay?”

Keith pops his eyes open, and his thoughts go from gloomy to jumpy, back and forth like someone flicking a light switch in his mind.

“What? I’m fine, are you fine?”

“Keith, do you need to talk or something? You're... awfully moody.”

Keith doesn't take it as an insult, and he sighs. He wasn't going to lie. “I just don't really know what to do. You're here, and now what? I feel bad.” He expresses his helpless emotions with his arms and shoulders, lifting them and letting them drop.

“Being cold is better than getting socked in the jaw, I can say that much,” Lance laughs. Keith’s heart sinks, and Lance immediately feels slight regret.

“Sorry.”

“No. Keith, dude, don't apologize, I really don't care.”

A few dreams of Keith’s are unlocked in the real world, and because of Lance’s touchy-feely and lack-of-thinking-before-acting personality, he grabs one of Keith’s hands reassuringly. He feels like a sap, enjoying the intense racing of his pulse at Lance’s fingers holding his.

“I’ve told you, Keith, I don't care where we are because I have fun when you're with me. You're a fun dude.” He smacks Keith’s back playfully, and he knows Lance picked that up from Michael. The thought stings a bit. But Lance squeezes his hand a little harder, eyes narrowing. “Your fingers- Why don't you wear actual gloves?”

Lance examines his hand, tracing the lines on his palms and poking the calluses on his fingers. He looks at his hand like he was looking at Keith’s life, seeing all the places he had been. Keith swallows, immensely distracted by the warmth of Lance’s fingers, but he shrugs.

“I uh, I didn't really have much planned. I didn't know it would be so cold,” Keith says truthfully. Of course he didn’t have anything planned. He’d thought he was going to lay around in his bed all day, until those ideas were ripped from him by the arrival of Tweedledee and Tweedledum changed that idea completely. Lance lets go of his hand, taking his warmth with it.

“How about we just…. Go for the usual? It’s been a while.” Lance suggests. Keith lets out a sigh of relief at the idea.

“I mean… it isn’t three o’clock in the morning this time. I don’t think they’re serving pancakes right now,”he says, and Lance looks a bit disappointed. But he stays optimistic, standing up and proceeding to stretch, stuffing both of his hands in his pockets.

“No harm in trying something new,” he shrugs, smiling. “And I’m sure it’s better than sitting outside. I’ll drive. My car isn’t far.”

“You’re going to kill us both. You suck at driving.”

“I think I have incredible driving skills, Keithy. I’ve been driving longer than you.”

Keith smirks, challenging Lance as he stands. “Hm. I’m sure, how much gas do you have in your tank right now, anyway?”

Lance frowns, worried. Keith sighs, hopelessly entertained. “You probably don’t have enough to make it to the station, huh.”

“Keith, that has nothing to do with our situation! We’re going to that diner. And I’m taking us there in style, as a better driver than you.” 

“Yeah. Alright. I want one of those slushies from the gas station though.” 

“Isn’t it too cold for that??”

“You think I can’t take it? They’re 99 cents and probably this big. They’re huge. I could chug the thing if I wanted.”

“Lies. You’re a coward, you wouldn't.”

“I’ll prove it.”

“Well, if you can I know I definitely can-”

 

Their bickering continues, even on the longer walk to where Lance had parked his car, ( he wasn’t normally driving into Keith’s neighborhood, so they spent a good while searching for the road he parked his car on, ) and both seemed to forget about the cold or the rest of the day ahead of them. 

Lance zipped his jacket back up and left Keith’s shirt hidden under. Keith would be stuck under Lance for a long time, he felt, and he was alright with that.

* * *

 

“Look, I’m not calling you insane for actually chugging that shit, I totally believed that you could. I’m calling you insane because that was the strawberry flavor. The machine was foaming when you dispensed it. It was from a gas station.”   
“I know.” 

“I got nauseous from smelling it. The cashier gave you a concerned look. How are you going to survive that.”

“I’ve told you who my little siblings are. I’ve survived much worse.” 

 

Lance and Keith are already in a beat up, red leather booth in Lenny’s diner, Keith switching his eyes from watching the people passing by through the window to Lance, who was sitting across from him with his face flat down on the table. The setting is much different, mid-afternoon with the sound of glass plates and mugs clattering against each other, other visitors chatting in their own circles. It’s different than the usual sounds of wistful night silence, neon lights buzzing outside of the glass doors and the lack of the welcoming bell in the middle of the night. The speakers would sing nighttime radio, and the sinks in the kitchen were easily heard. But in contradiction with others filing into seats around Keith and Lance in the present, they can only hear themselves, and the sound of the blaring jukebox keeping their patience in waiting for their own sassy waitress to come by in the rush hours. 

Lance feels relieved, because whichever waitress they see in the early early morning isn’t going to be working this time, and she wouldn’t be there to be eyeing Keith the way she does whenever they visit. Lance doesn’t mention that to Keith.

The table is relatively clean, but Keith still flicks a few crumbs off with his fingers in boredom. Lance is clutching his stomach, regretting, although not admitting to, his defeat from the questionable strawberry flavored ice he had challenged himself to drink for no other reason than to one Keith up.

It had started with Keith telling Lance to get the blue raspberry flavor, and  _ avoid  _ the strawberry, because that one was the grossest, and Keith was pretty sure there was mold in that part of the machine. Lance’s ambition, however, had other plans of him running towards his worst fate with Keith watching him as if he was witnessing a warfield full of blood and carnage, watching Lance remove the lid and drink the entire cup-full in one go. The hour in between the heartfelt bench-talk and Keith helplessly pining from across a diner table was a rollercoaster, and eventually Keith was the only one who sat without after sickness. 

“You know….they have green rivers here, the carbonation might make you feel better.” Keith ruffled Lance’s hair affectionately, trying to be a good friend in the situation he had gotten himself into by being in love with an idiot. Keith had to bite his tongue super hard to keep himself from laughing at Lance holding his stomach like a little kid with a tummy ache and whining. But Lance insists they stay, because he’s stomached much worse.

“I told you, I’ll be fine.” He can still give Keith a genuine smile, and Keith decides he can trust it. Keith wants to bend down and kiss Lance’s forehead, messy with hair and growing a mark from the prolonged resting on the table. 

“You’re an idiot.”

Lance hums and still takes every chance to be a smart ass.   
“I prefer experimentalist.”

Keith laughs at him softly, not noticing the longing stare he’s giving to Lance, taking advantage of the fact that Lance can’t see anything around him. Lance has his eyes closed, contemplating his decisions, occasionally whining. He is childish and really...extra, over dramatic, but it makes Keith smile. Keith thinks he’s cute, having to hold back every fiber of his being to not take his fingers and run them through Lance’s hair, which is teasing him and sitting out in the open. Keith already knows how soft it feels, and he wishes they were on the same side of the booth so Lance could rest on him instead of the hard table. Keith hated keeping that distance. Letting Lance sit alone, not being able to accept wearing his shirt. Even if it made Keith all the more embarrassed or flustered when Lance was only inches away from him, he liked it better than the cold space he felt he was forced to keep in between them. 

Lance shifts around in his seat, discovering no comfortable way to sprawl half of his body out on a sterile and one legged table. He mumbles about not being comfortable, and Keith tries to tell him nothing is going to work nicely. 

The fluorescent lighting and multiple blinking indoor signs about root beer floats and “World’s Best Cup of Coffee” make Lance constantly have to turn his head, making him feel blinded. He wants to cover his eyes with his hands and gloves he never bothered to remove, until something across the room catches his eye in between the cracks of his fingers. He sits up like he was a clown struck out of a jack-in-the-box.

“You didn’t tell me there was a jukebox here.” 

Lance points to the outdated machine with a few people poking buttons and flipping through selections, probably without money to choose what songs to play. It’s lit up in obnoxious pinks and greens, but it fills him with more fascination for the now memorable building. 

Keith turns in his seat and looks over his shoulder, shrugging. He doesn’t know how to feed Lance’s curiosity. 

“Well, it isn’t hard to miss. I just assumed you knew. And I don’t know many of the songs on there anyway, so I forget about it.” 

Lance’s eyes light up, knowing full well that what Keith had  _ actually said  _ was that the machine across the room  is chocked full of oldies music he would get nostalgic to. 

“But I  _ will _ know them. My mom and dad own tons of records at home. We have this big cabinet full of them under the tv, and I know almost all of them just from living there.” Lance rests his chin on his hands, holding his head up with his arms on the table. He fiddles around in his pockets for money, but doesn’t feel any coins in his jacket. He decides it’s for another time. 

Keith, however, feels his heart start to thump in sympathy, because he sees the spark that had started in Lance’s eyes get blown out by the feeling of homesickness, and Lance’s shoulders sink. 

“We were a little far apart in age, 5 years isn't the best gap, but I was still super close with Ethan and Elena. I know all of the songs because we would sit in the living room together and play around while Mom sat and watched and listened to the old records…”

Lance doesn’t say anything else, and Keith waits for him to break the silence, not knowing how to comfort him. Lance almost sets his head back down on the table, flipping his hood up and laying back down. But as soon as Keith decides Lance wasn't going to continue with his family stories, Lance starts up with an even larger fire, bolting up straight and shaking the table, making Keith jump in his seat, hitting the back of his neck on the edge of the booth. Keith lets go of the table he had gripped in surprise, and looks Lance in the eye, a bit scared, feeling his new bruise.

“Dude. What?”

Lance stands up in his seat, spreading his palms on the table like a dramatic business man, giving Keith an excited look that could singe his hair off from the actual flames in his eyes.

“Listen, if they have ‘What’s New Pussycat’ by Tom Jones up as an option in that jukebox I’m going to need at least 20 dollars.”

Keith chokes on his saliva at such a ridiculous statement, not even familiar with the song Lance was alluding to. And the amount of money he had requested. He looks at Lance, his pupils shrinking in shock and cocking his eyebrow, asking all the questions he had on his mind without words. Lance mirrors his shock, jaw dropping and waving his arms as he searches for words.

“No way. There’s no way,” Lance stops moving and points to the tip of Keith’s nose. He moves around wig dynamic like a cartoon character.”Do you know who John Mulaney is??” Lance grabs both sides of Keith’s face, demonstrating the urgent matter of Keith needing to understand Lance’s master plan. Keith is starting to sweat nervously, attempting to pry Lance’s hands off of his jaw.

“Not familiar. And 20 dollars!?? It costs 20 cents for  _ one _ song??” Keith’s voice cracks in slight, fear, and Lance loses a bit of tension in his grip, allowing for Keith to release himself.

“Oh. Well I’ll still need maybe 5 dollars.”

Keith’s mouth is gaping, trying desperately to understand the sudden energy radiating from Lance, and trying to catch up with him, get back on the same wavelength.

“Lance, that’s still over 20 songs. Are you doing simple math correctly?” 

Lance nods his head aggressively, holding a hand out and begging for the money. He assumes Keith will understand his college student budget and help him in a predicament, if one could call this a predicament. Keith isn’t breaking eye contact, convinced Lance has gone looney from the questionable slush they had bought at the gas station. He reaches into his pocket, handing Lance a five dollar bill like a mom would give her kid a quarter for the gumball machine at a bowling alley. Lance reacts just as excitedly, proceeding to rip off his jacket to throw on the table and mark their spot, ( the building was pretty packed, and they weren’t about to lose their seats ). Lance wraps a hand around Keith’s wrist and takes him to the counter surrounded by bar stools, a few people waiting for drinks and getting the attention of the lady working the register, one who looks exactly like all of the other waitresses. The way all the women were dressed made them look practically identical.

Keith stumbles over from the momentum when he is finished being dragged, and Lance asks the woman for change in dimes.  _ Dimes. _ The woman in her uniform paper hat gives him a very rather concerned look, eyeing Keith for confirmation that Lance wasn’t absolutely insane. Keith can only shake his head discreetly and shrug his shoulders while Lance lifts himself up and down on his toes excitedly.

The woman must not have thought twice about it, because she tears open a few new sets of coins and cups them in her hand. She pours Lance the handful equal to the amount in paper into his hand and Keith had only just caught his breath before Lance drags him yet again to the other side of the building, near the jukebox.

“Lance, you do a lot of stupid shit, and you’ve proven that to me already today, but what the hell are you doing??”

Lance lets go of Keith and shushes him with an empty finger, running his eyes down the selection list on the front of the jukebox. He ripples his fingers and makes the coins in his hand jingle, and when his eyes go wide in celebration, reflecting the neon lights on his dashing blue, Keith almost feels the need to put himself in between the machine and Lance to prevent Lance from destroying something. But Lance draws a long breath, dramatically, and turns to Keith with the most  _ mischievous  _ grin Keith has ever witnessed plastered under someone’s nose

“Keith, I’m about to make this the best meal of your life.” And with that, Lance starts picking dimes from his hand and inserting them into the coin slot, pressing the same button with each addition.

“Lance, I really, _really_ don’t trust whatever you are doing. What the hell are you actually doing. With my money.”

Lance feels upset that he should be even giving an explanation, but he sighs, having to speak up because of the few earlier songs chosen by other people still blaring from it’s and the restaurant's speakers.

“I’ll tell you at the table so no one recognizes this before my deed has been done.”

Keith darts his eyes from the machine to Lance, who’s decreasing pile of dimes, crossing his arms and waiting for what he knows will probably be an odd experience. With every clink of the coins falling down and every selection of what...seems to be the same song Lance is choosing for a playlist, he grows more and more curious. And it peaks when Lance’s finger moves to one other button with one of his coin additions, but then goes back to his cycle of the same song until his hand is eventually erased of five dollars worth of dimes. 50 dimes.

_25 songs._

They arrive back at the table, Keith feeling less burdened and much more interested in everything Lance is doing (and that definitely isn’t due to the fact that the flannel was on a complete viewpoint, sleeves rolled up halfway on Lance’s arms, which is enough to make Keith fall even more for Lance’s looks). The take-away was how heated Lance was getting about the shadow-zone he was about to send everyone in the restaurant to.

They settled in, Lance tapping his fingers together and giggling like he was a student who had put a tack on his teacher’s chair. Keith waits for an explanation, lowered eyelids and giving Lance the “I’ll wait,” look you normally get from parents. He throws the glint in his eye at Keith, catching his drift and trying to summarize his plan.

Lance feels dangerous, or witty, and doesn’t want to spoil his plan for anyone, so he gets up and walks around to Keith’s side of the table, scooting in until he was close enough for Keith to understand what he says when he speaks lowly.

Keith immediately notices their thighs touching, and how Lance leans over his body to hold himself up as he starts to whisper into Keith’s ear.

Keith, unprepared for this, starts to fume, having trouble paying attention to what Lance is telling him. He feels Lance’s breath on the side of his face, and he swears his lips are brushing against the shell of his ear, and Keith doesn’t dare tear his eyes away from the little spec he sees on the area of the table.

Lance mentions something about a comedian, and how he wanted to recreate one of his more famous skits, and how Keith was going to be laughing at all the people in the diner’s reactions. He looks around to the best of his ability, taking in the amount of customers eating food with them.

Their waitress arrives at their table with a flip book full of paper in one hand and a pen in the other. The two look up, Lance recognizing her and saying hi, scooting away, while Keith shrinks into his shoulders, painfully aware that this woman could see the amount of pigment in his cheeks. She doesn’t question his embarrassment, and she takes their drink orders.

When the woman walks away, Lance shifts around back to his side of the table and sits across from Keith as he rubs his ear bashfully. Lance has a big, big smile on his face, a look questioning him and waiting for his opinion.

“You’re…….ridiculous,” he manages to mumble out. Lance laughs, reminding Keith that is was going to be great, and that no one would know about his legacy. That is the way he wants it to be.

“Prepare to watch people go _nuts,_ Keith,” Lance assures, resting the side of his head on his fist as if he wasn’t just laying down illy a few minutes before. Keith is only half listening, but when he hears Lance’s line before he goes into a moment of silence and waiting, all he can think is that he will relate, because with every eye Lance gives him and every discreet smirk he catches behind the straw of Lance’s drink, Keith tells himself that he was going just as nuts for the sitting in the same red, beat up booth as him.

They wait and sip their drinks up until the time the first few words of Lance’s repeated song started to blare through the speakers all throughout the diner. Lance looks at Keith, grinning.

He gets the only confused look in the entire diner, because all of the other customers enjoying or waiting for their food on such a fine afternoon didn’t think twice of the new song playing on the jukebox. Keith doesn’t recognize the song at all, but due to the prolonged flash of Lance’s blue irises and his lips mouthing the lyrics, Keith already knows that whatever obnoxious music he’s listening to over the speakers, he’s going to have to get used to.

Whatever this “What’s New Pussycat” song Lance had chosen was going to be played twenty times in a row.

Keith scans the restaurant again, getting a feel of how many people were about to have their meals ruined, and he shakes his head, looking at Lance and biting his straw through a smile that said nothing but “You’re crazy.”

The song feels pretty normal throughout the first play, es expected by everyone. After the song ends Keith can hear the jukebox changing records before picking the same selection out again. When the second play begins, some of the other customers raise their heads and look around, slightly confused, but they end up going back to their business as usual. He can hear a few “Didn’t we just hear this song?”s somewhere in the diner, and Keith exhales lightly, finding it cute that this was all Lance was excited for. A couple of confused people.

When Keith takes out his phone to start scrolling mindlessly through whatever he could find, as it seemed Lance wasn’t willing to take a conversation and miss what he had paid to see, Lance covers the screen with his fingers, reminding Keith to keep watch with him. He wants to protest and let Lance do whatever he wants, but he doesn’t, clicking his phone to sleep and stuffing it in his pocket again to watch people’s reactions.

The second playthrough fades out while Lance is bites his lip, muttering “I can’t believe this is happening,” under his breath. Keith knows for sure he would be suspect if something goes wrong, but he doesn’t complain when the song starts for a third round, and more people look up and around at each other, starting to catch on.

“You had to pick _this_ song?” Keith whispers, and Lance nods his head in reply.

“This is the only guaranteed song to make people go wild,” Lance says, “I can’t believe this is actually working.”

Others keep their suspicions, but no one reacts too negatively, just starting conversations among groups and arising chatter within the building. The employees don’t do anything, as nothing terrible was happening. They seemed entertained too, as they weren’t the ones with increasing distress while doing their jobs.

They watch intently throughout the diner, heads close enough together from across the table so they can hear each other whisper over the multiple playthroughs of Tom Jones’ voice, and Keith even finds himself laughing after a few replays of the song. The confused looks on people’s faces, especially those who arrive and take their seats in the middle of one of the replays.

“Hey, Keith-” Lance taps Keith’s arm with one of his fingers. “Check that lady out.”

Keith turns his head in the direction he’s pointing in, watching a woman out with a few others the same age as her, along with a couple of children. The fifth replay is getting close to the end, and the woman’s face is starting to pinken in tension. She looks like she is aggressively showing her annoyance towards the other women sitting with her, and Keith finds it surprising at how Lance, the sweet family-oriented guy, is finding this funny.

The song fades out, and both of the boys’ attention is focused in on the very annoyed woman. When the song starts back up again, loud and happily, it’s as if the booming of the speakers was the thunder to her aggravated pound on the table, shaking the multiple coffee mugs she and her friends were enjoying.

The children stop and look at her, startled, and Lance has to try everything to keep his laughter at a low level, cupping a fist to his mouth or bending over the table and curling up. Keith can’t hold himself up, his face buried in his hands and laughing along with, trying to muffle his own noise.

“You’re insane, dude, this is great.”

“I _told_ you! This isn’t even the beginning, oh my god. What number replay is this?”

Keith snorts into a fist, not able to open his mouth without bellowing laughter. He shrugs and shakes his head, telling Lance he has lost count. Lance nods, putting a finger to his smiling mouth, because they don’t want to get caught messing with people.

When, well, whichever number repeat fades, Lance looks up into nothing, listening, and a different song begins to play, different instruments, different tempo, different rhythm-a different vibe as everyone visibly and audibly let's out a sigh of relief.

Keith is practically wiping tears from his eyes, coughing out final giggles from the laughing fit he had to hold in, and he tries to find words to describe this ridiculous feeling he’s dealing with. How Lance managed to take control and mess with people's patience out of nowhere like a puppet master, it was to die for.

“Is that it? Are you done?”

Lance looks back over at Keith, giving him a side-eye from behind a lunch menu, biting his tongue in his front teeth. He slowly shakes his head, bouncing his shoulders and laughing silently. Keith guesses what’s coming before it happens.

The new song seems so short; the members of the diner letting it pass by without any real second thought. Lance can estimate the amount of time it takes to change songs in the machine, counting the down the amount of seconds on his fingers, not breaking excited eye contact with Keith.

He bends each finger with each second in between, Keith biting his lip and bouncing his leg for what comes next. He can easily see Lance already knows what happens after the last finger bends down…

Feeling as though it was playing louder than before, Tom Jones’ “What's New Pussycat” begins to blare for the 21st time, startling everyone in the diner again. The yells of annoyance and discomfort and confusion have Keith arching back in laughter he can't hold in, spreading straight to Lance across surface of the table, who also whips back and holds a hand in a sloppy facepalm.

The diner is much louder, and they can get away with their schemes. Lance is kicking Keith’s legs under the table playfully, reminding him how great this was and how they had caused this event all with the movement of his feet.

They’ve blown their cover, but with the entertainment they’re getting, the dirty and funny looks they receive don't matter. Most customers roll their eyes and try to drown out the music, unlike some others who just about stand up and leave the facility. Keith and Lance don't care; they bask in each other’s happiness, and whether they’d get dragged out of the diner or not doesn't matter to them.

One of the waitresses clicks her way across the diner to their table, knowing the obvious suspects of the crime, and waits for their laughter to subside. Lance cracks an eye open, beginning to feel nervous as he notices the working woman standing with her arms crossed. His eyes trail up, and he notices her plump red lips grinning back at them. He kicks Keith from under the table to get his attention, and when Keith opens his eyes, he quiets down as well.

The woman crouches down and rests her arms on the table, turning her head back and forth between the two of them.

“You two goons responsible for this?” she laughs, obviously entertained and intrigued by the two of them. Lance leans back in his side of the booth, a little more confidence boosting his ego and the lady’s interest. He raises his eyebrow and shakes his head, putting on the most sarcastic tone he can conjure.

“Oh no, no no, of course not. We’re nice guys. We don't play tricks on innocent people.” Lance has a toothy grin, and the waitress laughs. Keith feels like he wants to puke, the feeling having nothing to do with the stomach pain he was getting from laughing. The girl smacks her gum like a cow, smiling, taking a pen and writing… a number? A _number_?

Keith’s mind goes haywire, red sirens blaring and with all of the computer screens lighting up green with jealousy.

“You guys are real cute. We’ll um… we'll get your order in a sec,” she offers, and Lance nods, a little more surprised than before. The waitress scratches her leg with the toes of her foot, and she walks away shyly. Lance turns to Keith, slightly astonished, and despite the low aching in his chest, Keith can't help but laugh at Lance’s accomplishments.

“Wow. Congrats, hotshot.” Keith isn't sure what to say, because he feels incredibly awkward. He punches Lance on the arm, who's frozen with a piece of ripped paper in his hands.

“I… don't know what to do with this,” he says, the chaos of the restaurant not phasing him at all anymore. Keith swallows with slight annoyance and fear, and his chest feels tight.

“Well... just... call her if you're interested?” Keith shrugs. He had gotten a couple of now neglected numbers after a few shows before, but he had never done anything with them. He’s surprised Lance is acting this way, because he didn't seemed as surprised when he had written his cell on Lance’s palm with a sharpie not even a few months back.

Lance is taking it oddly. Keith wants to end the subject quickly before he breaks his own heart, but Lance continues and holds Keith together.

“That’s… I don't think I'm interested,” Lance assures, looking back up at him from behind the slip of paper pinched in between his fingers. Keith’s heart stops, a bit confused. Someone unplugs the jukebox due to popular demand, stopping all of the music as Keith’s mind transforms into a blank slate.

“Hmm?” is all he can say.

“I mean, I'm not really interested in new people right now.” Lance folds the paper, sliding to the other side of the table where neither of them sat. “I uh, I have the band and my roommates and... I have you.”

Lance thinks back on the past few months before he sits, and Keith’s gaze doesn't break from his content expression as he pushes the paper away, choosing _him_ over something Lance had probably waited to get since high school.

“You just shot down your ultimate chance to prove to Hunk and Pidge that you have charm,” he says. Lance blushes lightly, pink powdering his cheeks with Keith’s sincere compliment. He leans to the side, picking his straw and twirling it in his fingers.

“I already know I have charm, Keith Kogane. I'll have you know, I got a bass guitarist’s number just a few months ago,” he brags. Keith scrunches his nose, feeling his own blush starting to creep up his neck.

“Well, I'm glad you're happy. I’m… I'm also happy that I know you.” Keith rests his chin on his hands, begging for Lance to know the truth of his feelings behind every word he speaks. His heart thuds in his chest, and although he can't express it, he feels love he finds familiar. “As long as I'm with you, I wouldn't change anything for the world.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was written by Muff!!!
> 
> The skit Lance was referring to, as well as what we based part of this chapter on: https://youtu.be/aYIwPu50Fic


	13. Phone Tag

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phone Tag - Modern Baseball

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An entire chapter written through text messages!

**Lance [9:32 A.M.]  
** **> Hey!**

 

**Keith [9:32 A.M.]  
** **> Hey you (:**

 

**Lance [9:33 A.M.]  
** **> Sorry I fell asleep last night. Half of my messages probably don’t even make sense lol**

 

**Keith [9:34 A.M.]  
** **> It’s fine! Half of your messages don’t make sense anyway lmao. Plus you need to sleep.**

 

**Lance [9:34 A.M.]  
** **> Sleep is for the weak.**

 

**Keith [9:34 A.M.]  
** **> And you have the strength of a small toddler.**

 

**Lance [9:35 A.M.]  
** **> RUDE.  
** **> UNBELIEVABLE.  
** **> I’LL HAVE YOU KNOW THAT THAT INFORMATION IS FALSE.**

 

**Keith [9:35 A.M.]  
** **> MMmmmmmMMMMMmmmmokay  
** **> Right.**

 

**Lance [9:40 A.M.]  
** **> And I was gonna ask if you slept well last night.  
** **> Well guess what.  
** **> Not anymore**

 

**Keith [9:41 A.M.]  
** **> Oh no  
** **> Oh dear  
** **> However will i go on**

 

**Lance [9:55 A.M.]  
** **> You are the worst, Keith Kogane.**

 

**Keith [10:00 A.M.]  
** **> And yet you still associate with me**

 

**Lance [10:05 A.M.]  
** **> I use you for the music**

 

**Keith [10:07 A.M.]  
** **> Speaking of which, I have practice today. At like 2 or 3. Wanna come?**

 

**Lance [10:10 A.M.]  
** **> I wish.  
** **> Gotta work on an econ project w Allura and a few others from class  
** **> at like 1 or 2  
** **> dunno how long thats gonna take**

 

**Keith [10:13 A.M.]  
** **> One of the reasons I’m not in school**

 

**Lance [10:14 A.M.]  
** **> bc you’re kinda dumb?**

 

**Keith [10:15 A.M.]  
** **> also group projects.**

 

**Lance [10:17 A.M.]  
** **> yeah those definitely are the worst.  
** **> hey Pidge just got back with breakfast. I’ll brb**

 

**Keith [10:19 A.M.]  
** **> dont choke on your waffles.**

 

**Lance [10:20 A.M.]  
** **> no promises.**

 

* * *

 

**Keith [12:21 P.M.]  
** **> ** **_attatched: [img.23159]_   
****> check out this record i found**

 

**Keith [12:24 P.M.]  
** **> Convince me not to buy it**

 

**Lance [12:25 P.M.]  
** **> Why would I do that?  
** **> it looks cool  
** **> i like the cover art  
** **> they look like the guys from Reservoir Dogs**

 

**Keith [12:27 P.M.]  
** **> Oh my god  
** **> youre kind of an idiot  
** **> those are the specials**

 

**Lance [12:28 P.M.]  
** **> listen  
** **> i know that  
** **> but I’m just saying that they look like them is all**

 

**Keith [12:29 P.M.]  
** **> you dont gotta lie to kick it**

 

**Lance [12:29 P.M.]  
** **> i aint lying tho**

 

**Keith [12:30 P.M.]  
** **> mhm**

 

**Keith [12:32 P.M.]  
** **> i bought the record.**

 

**Keith [12:35 P.M.]  
** **> you should maybe come over and listen to it  
** **> after ur done w your group project  
** **> if you want**

 

**Lance [12:40 P.M.]  
** **> i should be done by 4**

 

* * *

 

**Lance [1:54 P.M.]  
** **> group projects are hell**

 

**Keith [2:02 P.M.]  
** **> why whats up**

 

**Lance [2:25 P.M.]  
** **> nothing really its just  
** **> we have to do this project where we...okay. Okay hold on.  
** **> ** **_attatched: [img.q9jf498]_   
****> look at the title of this fucking project**

 

**Keith [2:29 P.M.]  
** **> you’re kidding**

 

**Lance [2:30 P.M.]  
** **> I wish I was.**

 

**Keith [2:32 P.M.]  
** **> how are you even supposed to do anything with that**

 

**Lance [2:34 P.M.]  
** **> you tell me  
** **> “An Introductory Survey to Stock Modeling with Jump Diffusion Processes and Analysis of Pareto Beta Jump Diffusion Model” isn’t something that I ever thought I would say in my entire life. It doesn’t even sound like it should be a real sentence.**

 

**Lance [2:36 P.M.]  
** **> Allura says hi by the way.  
** **> How’s band practice?**

 

**Keith [2:38 P.M.]  
** **> it's alright. Just band practice, nothing crazy.  
** **> the guys say hi  
** **> Michael says that he wishes you were here to bring him coffee and a donut from the shop down the street**

 

**Lance [2:40 P.M.]  
** **> tell him I'll bring him one tomorrow**

 

**Keith [2:43 P.M.]  
** **> k**

 

**Lance [2:45 P.M.]  
** **> don't you ‘k’ me, Keith Kogane.**

 

**Lance [2:50 P.M.]  
** **> Michael just texted me and said that you're being mean**

 

**Keith [2:49 P.M.]  
** **> What a loser hold on I’m gonna punch him**

 

**Lance [2:52 P.M.]  
** **> You get back here!  
** **> why are you gonna punch him?**

 

**Keith [2:55 P.M.]  
** **> He can get his own coffee and donuts.  
** **> and  
** **> nvm**

 

**Lance [2:56 P.M.]  
** **> ??? I’m good w getting people food tho it’s not a problem or anything  
** **> and don’t ‘nvm’ me u know i hate that**

 

**Keith [2:57 P.M.]  
** **> it’s nothing tho  
** **> and i know but he can just... eh**

 

**Lance [2:58 P.M.]  
** **> ok im gonna bug you till you tell me  
** **> Keith  
** **> keith  
** **> hey  
** **> keith**

 

**Keith [2:58 P.M.]  
** **> stop that**

 

**Lance [2:59 P.M.]  
** **> tell me  
** **> keith  
** **> Keith  
** **> hey  
** **> teeeell meeeeeee  
** **> teeeeellie  
** **> oh wow  
** **> autocorrect  
** **> why would it correct to that?  
** **> anyway  
** **> tell me  
** **> hey  
** **> don;t think i wont do this foreber  
** **> *forever  
** **> im at a study group  
** **> and i have no idea what our group project is even about  
** **> so i mena  
** **> *mean  
** **> i got all the time in the world**

 

**Keith [3:01 P.M.]  
** **> OKAY  
** **> okay  
** **> just  
** **> stoooooop**

 

**Lance [3:01 P.M.]  
** **> (:  
** **> well?**

 

**Keith [3:03 P.M.]  
** **> i was just  
** **> i was gonna say  
** **> he can keep his hands to himself  
** **> he has other people he can hit on**

 

**Lance [3:06 P.M.]  
** **> he wasn’t hitting on me???  
** **> was he??????**

 

**Keith [3:06 P.M.]  
** **> he says no  
** **> but i  
** **> well it seemed like you guys were close so I wa sjust thinking  
** **> *was just**

 

**Keith [3:10 P.M.]  
** **> see  
** **> it was dumb  
** **> that’s all  
** **> just Michael being dumb i should have known ya know that’s hwy i was saying i wasnt gonna tell you**

 

**Lance [3:12 P.M.]  
** **> why  
** **> keith kogane  
** **> are you.........  
** **> jealous? (-:**

 

**Keith [3:12 P.M.]  
** **> no  
** **> no im not  
** **> nuh uh**

 

**Lance [3:13 P.M.]  
** **> it’s okay if you are  
** **> i don’t mind (:**

 

**Lance [3:18 P.M.]  
** **> Cause  
** **> yeah it’s  
** **> I’ve gotten jealous too you know.  
** **> over the waitress at the diner  
** **> and the way she looks at you**

 

**Keith [3:20 P.M.]  
** **> she doesn’t look at me, does she?**

 

**Lance [3:21 P.M.]  
** **> A lot  
** **> and  
** **> yeah**

 

**Keith [3:21 P.M.]  
** **> well i’m not interested or anything  
** **> so  
** **> so don’t uh.. Yeah dont worry**

 

**Lance [3:22 P.M.]  
** **> waitresses arent ur type huh?**

 

**Keith [3:27 P.M.]  
** **> i prefer waiters.**

 

* * *

 

**Lance [4:07 P.M.]  
** **> Hey im leaving now, i’ll be over in 10**

 

* * *

 

**Keith [11:15 P.M.]  
** **> Hey, text me when you get home, yeah?**

 

* * *

 

**Lance [11:32 P.M.]  
** **> I made it (:**

 

**Keith [11:32P.M.]  
** **> good (:**

 

**Lance [11:34 P.M.]  
** **> I had a good time tonight  
** **> those bands you showed me were really cool (:**

 

**Keith [11:34 P.M.]  
** **> I’m glad you liked them (:  
** **> I told you to take some of this pizza tho. I don’t have room in my fridge lmao**

 

**Lance [11:36 P.M.]  
** **> Pidge would probably devour it in like 3 minutes  
** **> keep it there, we can have leftovers the next time I come over**

 

**Keith [11:37 P.M.]  
** **> leftovers are only good for like the first 2 days**

 

**Lance [11:37 P.M.]  
** **> then ill come over tomorrow**

 

**Lance [11:40 P.M.]  
** **> if that’s ok with you of course**

 

**Keith [11:43 P.M]  
** **> yeah  
** **> yeah I’d like that**

 

**Keith [11:55 P.M.]  
** **> ah, you forgot your jacket  
** **> the green one with the hood**

 

**Lance [11:56 P.M.]  
** **> I was wondering where that was  
** **> it’s cool man i trust you  
** **> i’ll get it next time i come over**

 

**Keith [11:57 P.M.]  
** **> okay (:**

 

**Lance [11:58 P.M.]  
** **> keep it warm for me, yeah?**

 

**Keith [11:59 P.M.]  
** **> ... yeah.**

 

* * *

 

**Keith [2:46 A.M.]  
** **> hey you  
** **> are you uh, are you up?**

 

**Lance [2:47 A.M.]  
** **> mm ya m now w hy wsup**

 

**Keith [2:50 A.M.]  
** **> ah if you’re asleep it’s okay  
** **> i was  
** **> i was gonna ask if i could call you.**

 

**Lance [2:50 A.M.]  
** **> I’m awake  
** **> call me.**

 

* * *

“Keith?”

“Hey.”

“You okay?”

“Ah, yeah. Just... Couldn’t sleep. Very well. I’m sorry if I woke you up.”

“‘S fine. Don’ worry. Can I help?”

“Just... talk to me? Unless you’re tired.”

“No, no, ‘s fine, I said. Uh, well, what are you doing right now?”

“I’m in bed. I’ve been staring at my ceiling for the past 15 minutes debating whether or not to call you.”

“You should’ve called me 15 minutes ago.”

“Then you wouldn’t have gotten 15 minutes of more sleep.”

“But you would have felt better, right?”

“... Yeah. Probably.”

“Then shut up about it. Next time call me, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Did I ever tell you about the time my mom took us camping?”

“... No, you didn’t.”

“Mm. Well it was a few years back. I was 17. Ethan and Elena were pretty excited. Mom was too. I wasn’t a big camping fan.”

“You don’t seem like you would be.”

“Mhm. Cause sleeping in a tent is just. I’s real uncomf’erble you know? So I wasn’t too stoked on it. But I went, of course, anyway. And it wasn’ that bad in the day. We went hiking and swimming and I saw a deer.”

“A deer?”

“Don’t sound so unimpressed. It wasa cool deer. Had a little fluffy tail an’ everything. Like Bambi.”

“Mm.”

“Ess’actly. So the day was nice. And even the night wasn’ that bad but then we found a snake in the tent.”

“A snake.”

“Yeah man it was just... scary. Snake. Right on my sleeping bag. So naturally I wasn’ sleepin’ there that night.

“So we took all of our stuff -- the blankets and the pillows and the sleeping bags and everything and stuffed them into the bed of the truck. All 4 of us. And we piled in and it was nice and warm and there were no snakes at all.”

“That sounds nice.”

“It was. And the best part, though, was the stars. I could see all of them. For miles and miles and miles above us and around us on all sides there were nothing but stars. No clouds, no lights from the city. It was the most amazing thing I’ve seen in my entire life.”

“I bet it was.”

“Until I met you.”

“... What?”

“You’re amazing.”

“I’m not.”

“Shush. I can hear you smiling.”

“I’m _not_.”

“You may try and deny it, but it’s true. I like talking to you. You’re pretty cool. And you have good music taste.”

“I wish I could say the same for you.”

“Again, shush. I’m being nice. Let me have this. Just... let me be there for you, please?”

“What?”

“That’s what I’m trying to say. In a weird, twisted, round-about way. I want to be there for you. Let me. Call me when you need me or text me or whatever. Even if you showed up at my house right now I would let you in and share my bed if you wanted. Just -- be okay.”

“Okay.”

“Mmm. Good.”

“You sound tired.”

“A little. But if you want me to stay up-”

“I’m okay. You can sleep. Just... Lance?”

“Mmm?”

“Can you, uh, can you stay on the line? I just... It’s nice having you here.”

“Mmm. ‘Kay.”

“... Can confess something?”

“Mm.”

“I’m wearing your jacket. I have been since I woke up from my nightmare. It was... It’s nice. And it’s really comfortable. It smells like you.

“Are you asleep?

“Good. You should sleep. Can I confess something else?

“... I like you a lot, Lance. Thank you.

“Okay, I’m hanging up now before you wake up. Goodnight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was written by Maddy!!


	14. Your Name is Tattooed On My Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your Name is Tattooed On My Heart - Screeching Weasel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while, my dudes.
> 
> Here's a double update.

“I can’t believe you’re doing this.”

Lance shrugs, flipping another page in the artist’s portfolio without looking at Hunk. “I want to. So I’m gonna.”

“You got the design from a drunk woman at a bar,” Hunk says, though he picks up a portfolio as well, flipping through the pages without really looking. “You don’t even know if this guy is any good.”

“Hunk,” Lance says, pulling out his phone and snapping a picture of a traditional style panther before slipping it back into his pocket. “Do you think I’m just going to walk into any old tattoo shop and get just anyone to do this piece? No, my dude, I  _ researched _ .”

“You asked Allura-”

“I asked Allura,” Lance relents. “But this guy did all of hers  _ and  _ Shiro’s tattoos and they all look A plus so I trust it.”

“Seems fair,” Hunk admits, “though I think you really should have thought about this first. This is going to be expensive, you know.”

“I have savings.”

“It’s going to hurt.”

“I’m a big tough guy.”

“It’s really going to hurt.”

“Listen maybe I can-”

“It’s  _ really _ going to hurt, Lance.”

“Well I want it!!”

Hunk shrugs, pausing on a page full of Friday the 13th tattoos. He wrinkles his nose at a shrunken head in the corner of the page. “Well that’s a bit gruesome.”

Lance leans over in his chair, humming at the art on the page. “That cat is cute, though.”

“What is it with you and all of these cat tattoos?” Hunk asks, turning the page and making another face at an image of a half-naked woman straddling a missile.

“I like cats,” Lance says, shrugging. “Maybe I’ll get a lion or something. A blue one. Right here on my right calf.” He tugs up the hem of his jeans a bit for emphasis. Hunk snorts.

“A blue lion?”

“Yeah man, blue is cool.” Lance grins, lightly tapping Hunk’s leg with the toe of his shoe. “Get a yellow lion to match me.”

“On my leg?”

“Yeah! Why not? Get it on your left. We’ll be leg bros!”

“I’m pretty sure I’d be more than a leg,” Hunk says. “Like... A head, or something.”

“You can’t get a yellow lion tattooed on your face,” Lance says, rolling his eyes. “It’d be unpractical.”

“Kind of like this giant tattoo you’re getting for a boy?” Hunk asks. Lance scoffs.

“I’m getting this tattoo because  _ I _ want it,” he says. He places a hand on his chest. “And quite frankly, Hunk, I am offended that you would think otherwise.”

“Oh,” Hunk says. “Good. In that case you won’t mind that I invited the twins.”

All color drains from Lance’s face. “You what?”

Hunk grins, sharp and steady. “I invited the twins to come. It’s only fair, right? That they be here for an occasion that means  _ so much _ to you? Since this tattoo is something you’ve wanted for awhile now, apparently.”

As if on cue, the door to the shop opens. A pair of teenagers make their way inside, all smiles and wide, blue eyes.

Ethan and Elena are mirror images of their older brother. Tall, built, tan with brown hair and blue eyes, they definitely share Lance’s genes. Elena slides into the front of the tattoo shop first, shimmying her hips a bit to the music coming from the speakers. Ethan follows suit, dancing to Lance's side before falling into the chair beside him. Lance groans.

“Oh thanks,” Ethan says. “I can feel the affection just rolling off of you in waves.”

“Maybe you'll drown in it,” Lance says, and Elena lets out a mock gasp.

“Here we are, coming to you at an important time in your life, and you wish death on us?”

Lance clicks his tongue. “You aren't here ‘at an important time’.” He waves a hand dismissively. “It's a tattoo.”

“One that you'll have for the  _ rest _ of your  _ life _ ,” Ethan says, poking Lance's arm for emphasis. “What are you getting, anyway?”

Lance clicks his tongue again and digs through his pocket for his phone, unlocking it and tossing it in Ethan’s direction. “The flowers.”

Ethan stares at the picture for an extra second before leaning forward to pass the phone to a waiting Elena. “That's gay.”

“Good thing I am then, huh?”

Ethan nods in approval at the same time as Elena. “It's pretty,” the sister says, passing the phone back to Lance. “The blues and greens will look nice with your skin tone.”

“I wanted to add some red in there too,” he says, and she hums.

“Why are you getting this anyway? Are you rebelling?” She grins. “If you are then tell me. I have some clubs I've been wanting to take you to for a while now.”

“You're 18, what are you doing at clubs?” Lance asks, eyes narrowing.

“Nevermind, not rebelling,” she says, disappointed. “Just getting a tattoo for his boyfriend.”

“The one he never told us about,” Ethan finishes. “The one he's been keeping a secret, even though he's been going to concerts that he knows we would like to go to with him.”

“You really robbed us of sibling bonding time,” Elena sighs. “I'm not sure we’ll ever recover.”

“I'm wonder if Mom might be able to help,” Ethan says. “Maybe find us a good therapist to help with the trauma of abandonment.”

“Stop being dramatic,” Lance says, punching Ethan in the arm. “I'll take you to his next show. And  _ no, _ he is not my boyfriend. So cut that shit out.”

“You totally pine for him like crazy and you hang out like every day,” Hunk says, still flipping through the artist’s portfolio. “He’s totally your boyfriend. You're just too scared to ask him.”

“Et tu, Hunk?” Lance asks, betrayed. “Et tu?”

Hunk only shrugs, half-smiling as Lance feigns hurt.

“So why  _ are _ you getting it, then?” Elena asks, flicking her hair over her shoulder and crossing her arms. Her hair falls low on her back, nearly meeting her hips.

Lance shrugs. “It looked cool when I got it last month. I’ve been meaning to do something.... different, too. You know? I’m 23. Why not.”

“You sure chose a bitch of a piece to get for your first tattoo.”

A new voice cuts in from the back of the shop. Lance looks up as a woman pokes out from behind the bookshelf that separates the front of the shop from the back. She smiles, leaning against the edge of the shelf, using her elbow to prop herself up, her fist resting against her temple.

Her head is half-shaved, her hair black with purple highlights cut off right above her shoulders. Sleeves of flowers and script and Disney characters cover her arms, cutting off at the wrists. The back of her left hand is covered by a black and white rose, and her ring and index finger on both hands house multiple rings.

Lance catches sight of a tattoo on her chest, the heads of two ravens sticking out from beneath her v-neck tee, their beaks nearly meeting at the center of her chest. They both sit on trees, the branches and leaves and flowers covering the negative space between them, travelling up to the edges of her collarbones. Her shirt doesn’t quite meet the top of her jeans so it rides up, and Lance can see jellyfish and bubbles floating up her right hip. He stares at her for a total of 30 seconds before Ethan elbows him, hard.

“Ah,” he says brilliantly. “Oh.”

The woman half snorts, raising a pierced eyebrow. “Yeah, that’s a big piece for your first time. I hope you’re at least getting it somewhere that isn’t going to just murder you.”

“Murder?”

“I’ve had people black out on me before, String Bean.” She shrugs. “It’s not ideal, but hey, it’s not like you can help it.” She pushes off of the shelf, holding out a hand and grinning. “My name’s Danny. But you can call me Dan.”

“Lance.” He introduces himself, taking her hand and grinning back.

“Nice to meet you, Lance,” Dan says. “Now where do you want me to stick this thing?”

* * *

“You can back out, dude.”

“I don’t want to.”

“This is gonna hurt though.”

“Yes I know, we went over this half an hour ago.”

“Okay but like, you don’t have to prove anyth-”

“Hunk, please, you’re worse than the twins.”

Hunk adjusts his death-grip on Lance’s hand. “Okay but like, the twins aren’t gonna try and stop you from getting this.”

“We’re gonna film it,” Ethan says, grinning from behind his phone screen. “He’s probably gonna cry. We’re gonna play it at every family gathering for the rest of forever.”

“Okay first of all, not cool,” Lance says, adjusting himself on the parlor seat. He’s sitting backwards, chest resting against the leather. He rests his chin on the top of the seat by the head rest, looking across at the twins. “Second, I’m not gonna cry.”

“He’s right,” Elena says. “He’s probably just gonna scream and then black out.”

“I’m not gonna do that either!”

Elena only smiles, shrugging, and leans back in the extra chair that Dan had provided her. “We’ll see.”

Hunk tightens his grip on Lance’s hand. “You sure dude? She hasn’t even put the stencil thing on yet. You still have time.”

Lance rolls his eyes. “Hunk, I’m sitting in a tattoo parlor shirtless on what I’m pretty sure is a massage chair with my tattoo all sketched out and ready to go. I’m gonna do it.”

Dan speaks up behind him, setting up her machine and lining up the containers filled with colors. “Good, because that was a fun sketch, and it’ll be a fun tattoo.”

Lance takes a deep breath, adjusting himself again, rolling his shoulders back a few times before leaning forward again to rest against the chair. The machine kicks on behind him, and he holds his breath as he waits.

“Breathe,” Dan says, breath against his shoulder. “It’ll be easier if you breathe.”

_ Breathe _ , Lance thinks, though the buzzing of the machine in his ear seems to hinder his ability to do so.

The needle hits his skin, and he yelps.

* * *

Three hours and two near-blackouts later, Lance leaves the shop with a new tattoo on his shoulder.

Ethan leaves with a new video of Lance crying as he holds Hunk’s hand, with Elena and Dan laughing over his shoulder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written by Maddy


	15. There Is A Light That Never Goes Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There Is A Light That Never Goes Out - The Smiths

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So so excited for this chapter, and hope you enjoy~

If there was one thing that Lance looked forward to every year, it was the Christmas carnival.

Their town held it every year -- a gathering of the town’s citizens in the field just behind City Hall, a tradition full of booths for shopping and fattening food and rides that could possibly break down at any minute. ( _ But that’s the fun! _ , Lance has insisted to Hunk on more than one occasion.  _ It’s the thrill of it all! _ )

The best part, though, in Lance’s humble opinion, is the lighting of City Hall itself. Not only for the nearly 2 million tiny lights that cover the building and cascade off into the plants and surrounding area, but also for the fireworks and the live band that they usually have play every year. It tends to be someone local, sometimes the school band or sometimes some high schooler that had won the local talent show.

This year it’s Keith’s band.

Lance had been ecstatic when he’d found out; Keith, Keith’s band,  _ and  _ the Christmas carnival? It was like... the dream combination.

Keith, however, seems to think otherwise.

“Dylan, just... I can’t do this,” he says for what seems like the eightieth time tonight, and Jordan sighs from next to Lance.

“Dude, shut up.” He lights his third cigarette, stuffing his nearly empty pack into his jacket pocket. “You’re playing. There’s no getting out of it. Don’t be a pussy.”

“I’m  _ not _ ,” Keith hisses, tugging on the edge of his beanie and pouting. “It’s just... It’s different than what we normally play.”

The four of them make their way through the crowd from the kettle corn booth, attempting to double back in the direction of some of the gaming booths to meet up with Pidge, Hunk and Michael. They crunch through the light layer of snow that covers the field, ducking around families and couples and passing a bag of kettle corn between them.

If Lance uses the crowd and the cold as an excuse to get a little closer to Keith, he doesn’t say anything about it.

“I don’t get why you’re freaking out,” Dylan says. “If anything, you should be stoked that we have this kind of recognition.”

“There are kids in the audience, dude,” Keith counters. “And like.. Drunk adults. That probably listen to nothing but John Mayer or shitty country music.”

“Okay, fair enough point,” Dylan nods. “But you’re still playing.”

“It’ll be fine!” Lance cuts in, spinning on his heel so he’s walking in front of Keith, shoving his hands in his pockets and grinning. “Everyone will love you. Now let’s go play some stupid rigged games until we’re out of money, and then later I can go be one of those drunk adults that yells out something like ‘play Freebird!’ while you play.”

Keith laughs, and Lance’s stomach lurches. He trips over his own feet, stumbling backwards half a step before regaining his composure. He flips back around, falling back in step at Keith’s side. Their shoulders brush, and even though three layers of sleeves Lance feels as though he’s been shocked.

By the time they hunt down the other three, Michael has already claimed a giant stuffed panda for himself, hauling it over his head with a roar of triumph as he catches the four of them approaching. Pidge rides on Hunk’s shoulders, arms in the air in celebration.

“I have done it!” Michael cries. “It took $20 and a lot of patience, but I have won the giant panda! He is mine!”

“You should have seen it!” Pidge calls down to Lance. “He had to do one of those ‘shoot out the star’ things, and it took him like 30 tries but he finally did it. The guy didn’t want to give him the panda, either, because of some stupid fluke where there was still not even a millimeter of red on the paper, but Hunk argued with him until he gave him the panda.”

“Hunk did?” Lance asks, eyebrow raised.

“Yeah!” Pidge laughs. “Amazing, right?!”

Hunk shrugs, and Pidge grabs ahold of his head in order to avoid falling backwards. “What can I say? I can be very persuasive when I want to be.”

“This thing is fucking sick,” Michael says, hauling the panda over his shoulder. The stuffed bear is massive, the head twice the size of Michael’s and the body nearly dragging on the floor even as he wraps the arms around his neck like a cape. “I’m gonna cuddle this thing forever.”

“It might help your significant lack of girlfriend,” Jordan says from beside him. “Now you have something to talk to at night. You can stop calling me.”

“But bro,” Michael feigns hurt. “I love our late night talks. They keep me going.”

“And now you have Pedro the Panda here,” Jordan says simply.

“Anyway,” Hunk says, resting his hands on Pidge’s thighs. “How about we go on the ferris wheel next?”

“Oh man!” Michael hikes the bear up higher, spinning in the direction of the ride. “Let’s let Pedro see the sights.”

“Ah,” Lance laughs nervously, shuffling from foot to foot. “How about we just... Go on the Gravetron instead?”

“No.”

“Hunk?!”

Hunk shakes his head. “If we do that, you know I’m going to puke.”

“So take one for the team!”

“We’re going on the ferris wheel, Lance.  _ You _ take one for the team.”

The rest of the group makes their way across the fairgrounds, but Lance hangs back. Keith falls back at his side, walking with him, not saying anything. When they reach the line for the ferris wheel, Lance stops, reaching out to grab Keith’s wrist.

“I’m afraid of heights.”

It comes out more of a blurted confession than the conversational nonchalance he was hoping for, but Keith takes it in stride, simply nodding and twisting his hand in Lance’s grip, letting their fingers half-lace together.

“Okay.”

Lance can feel his cheeks heating up. “I just- I’ve never really liked them. I can do fast rides, and scary rides, and stuff with loops and corkscrews and stuff that makes Hunk puke his guts out. But I just... I can’t do heights.”

Keith shrugs. “Okay.”

“So I don’t really want to go on this you know? But at the same time I don’t want anyone to call me a bitch,” he’s rambling now, he knows it, but he can’t really seem to stop. “So I’m not exactly sure what to do because, like, I don’t want  _ you _ to think I’m a bitch or anything. And I kind of do want to see the view, and Michael with that panda is really funny and I want to take pictures but I don’t wanna get all the way to the top and-”

“Okay.”

Lance cuts off. “What?”

Keith shrugs a second time, smiling. “Okay. It’s fine. We don’t have to go on if you don’t want to.”

“You mean it?” Lance can feel Keith’s fingers squeeze his own, though it feels like he has a direct grip on his heart.

“Yeah,” Keith says. “It’s fine. I get it.” His voice lowers a bit, and he pointedly avoids Lance’s gaze as he looks up at the lights on the ferris wheel. “I like ferris wheels. It’s always nice to go on with someone who’s with you. But if you don’t like heights then that’s cool too.”

“I’ll go on if you go with me,” Lance finds himself saying, eyes wide and cheeks flaming. Keith’s gaze flicks to Lance’s for a split second before darting back to the top of the ferris wheel. The corners of his mouth twitch upward.

“I’ll even hold your hand the whole time.”

* * *

The top of the ferris wheel is, granted, not as terrifying as Lance may have thought.

It may or may not have everything to do with Keith.

By the time their car is halfway up the ferris wheel, Keith still hasn’t let go of his shaking hand. Their fingers sit laced together on the seat between them, Keith’s chin resting on Lance’s shoulder as he leans against him, pointing out over the fairgrounds.

Their group is split up between cars; Dylan and Jordan in one, Michael and Pedro the stuffed panda in a second, Pidge and Hunk in a third and Keith and Lance in their own. Keith’s ankle hooks around Lance’s in the bottom of the car, and Lance can’t breathe without taking in a lungful of Keith.

His eyes are wide, grin stretching across his face as he points at the different attractions, spewing off random facts about City Hall that he’d learned in some pamphlet they’d handed out at the front gates of the fair. His hair tickles behind Lance’s ear, and he can feel Keith’s breath on his cheek.

By the time they reach the top of the ferris wheel, his hands aren’t shaking anymore.

The wheel pauses for a minute when their car reaches the top, and Lance decides to attempt to take in the view in front of him. The horizon stretches out in front of him, the lights from the city dotting the horizon like fireflies. He can see the headlights from cars on the highway a few miles away, and his stomach lurches at the thought of just how high up they are. Keith grips his hand a bit tighter, sliding across the seat so they’re flush from hip to knee, Keith’s chest resting against Lance’s arm.

“You’re okay.”

The words are let out in a breath that fans across his neck, and he can feel Keith’s nose brush along the shell of his ear. The fear in the bottom of his stomach melts.

“Thank you.”

He isn’t sure who says it, whether it’s him or Keith, but he knows that he feels like he’s free falling, his chest fluttering and his stomach lead. He grips the side of the ferris wheel car with his free hand as reassurance that he hasn’t, in fact, swam-dived off of the edge.

He lets himself to lean to the side, his head lolling back to rest against Keith’s own. He closes his eyes, and takes in the feeling of Keith’s thumb brushing over his knuckles the entire ride down from the top.

* * *

The others had already gotten off of the ferris wheel by the time Lance and Keith’s car stops at the bottom. One of the attendants pulls open the bar across their lap, letting them climb out of the car and onto the landing set up to lead to the exit. Lance’s legs are wobbly as he steps out, and he grips Keith’s arm a bit tighter to keep his balance. Keith notices, and shifts to support Lance without saying anything.

The others wave to them from their place at the exit, and Lance waves back in their direction a bit weakly.

“We’re going to get in line for the Zipper!” Pidge calls out, and Hunk makes a face that says that he clearly doesn’t approve of this plan. Lance gives them a shaky thumbs up, and Hunk shoots his own back before they all turn to leave. Keith begins moving forward, and Lance stumbles along with him for a few feet until they get passed the exit gate. He lets himself collapse onto the grass beneath the ride. He can feel the heat from the generators powering the ride, and he’s glad that there’s a section of grass free of snow for him to lay in.

“That wasn’t too bad,” Lance says, though his shaking voice betrays him. Keith laughs and lets himself fall down beside him.

The ferris wheel lights flash above them in time to a song playing from the ride’s speakers, and they dance across the shadows of Keith’s face. Lance gets lost watching the patterns.

“I had a good time,” Keith says quietly, and Lance smiles.

“Really?”

“Really,” Keith echoes, letting his head fall to the side to look at Lance. Half of his face crushes the grass beneath him, his arms splayed out at his sides. His eyes are wide, and Lance is close enough to count the freckles that dot along his nose. “I always have a good time with you, Lance.”

A silence settles over them, and Lance doesn’t breathe for fear of popping the bubble that forms, trapping them in their own world beneath the ferris wheel. He’s sure Keith can feel the pounding of his heart, positive that the beats could be mistaken with tectonic plates shifting in the earth beneath them.

He sucks in a breath and sighs out a sentence, and in a single moment, the bubble is popped.

“You’re beautiful.”

Keith’s pupils are huge, nearly covering the purple of his irises. The pattern of the lights above them changes with a new song playing across the fairgrounds. Both the tempo and the lights speed up. Lance can’t tell if the red on Keith’s cheeks is because of his words or the small flashing bulbs above them.

Keith sits up quickly, and Lance follows, panicked.

_ Oh god, you screwed up. Oh no, no no, he doesn’t feel the same. He doesn’t- _

“What?” Keith asks, voice dangerously low.

“I-” Lance has no idea how to form a solid sentence. What are words? How do they work? This is a dream, right? A nightmare. This has to be a nightmare. Is he wearing pants?

Three blades of grass are stuck to Keith’s left cheek, and Lance wants to reach out and brush them off.

“I think you’re beautiful,” he says instead, digging himself an even deeper grave. “Amazing, really. I think you’re amazing.”

_ Keith hasn’t blinked for at least 30 seconds now. Is that normal? He hasn’t blinked and he probably hasn’t breathed and he definitely isn’t saying anything- _

Lance reaches out and brushes the grass off of Keith’s cheek.

He lets his hand linger, alarms sounding in his mind at the action.

_ What are you doing? What are you doing what are you doing he’s going to hate you what are you doing- _

He lets his fingers travel up Keith’s cheekbone, his thumb brushing across the freckles that spread out beneath Keith’s eye. His hand travels up far enough that his middle and ring finger frame Keith’s earlobe, fingertips brushing through his hair.

_ What are you doing what are you thinking he’s going to hit you you’re going to mess everything up- _

He shifts in the grass so he’s facing Keith a bit better, still cupping his cheek, supporting the rest of his weight on his other hand. His fingers curl deeper into the ground he’s supporting himself on, and he can feel dirt bury itself beneath his fingernails. He can’t be bothered to care. His left knee knocks against Keith’s.

“Really?”

The word takes Lance by surprise for a second, and he nearly forgets what Keith is asking about. Then it hits him, and he nods quickly.

“Really.”

He leans in closer at the same moment Keith’s hand reaches up to wrap itself around his neck, pulling him in completely. And then Keith’s lips are meeting his lips and Lance loses any ability left to function.

It’s awkward, a kiss that’s entirely hesitation and chapped lips barely brushing against each other, Keith’s hand gripping the hair at the nape of Lance’s neck, and Lance’s neck sore from the angle he’s forced to sit in. Their teeth knock together and Lance is pretty sure that he misses Keith’s lips entirely during his second attempt at kissing him, but he thinks that it may be the greatest moment of his life anyway.

And then Keith is laughing, turning his body so that his right leg drapes over Lance’s lap, tugging at his arm until Lance turns to face him, too. The bottom of Lance’s pants are wet but he ignores it, leaning in instead to catch Keith’s lips with his own for a third time.

And the third time’s the charm.

Kissing Keith is like a whirlwind of emotions that nearly overwhelm him. Relief floods him like a dam thats burst, and he can probably cry from the sheer joy of being able to feel Keith’s breath against his lips, hear his sighs and satisfied laughter as Lance bites at his bottom lip.

Keith lets his arms drape over Lance’s shoulders, his elbows resting against Lance’s collarbone as he lets his fingers tangle in his hair. He hooks a leg behind Lance’s back, pulling himself forward to let his forehead rest in the crook of Lance’s neck.

But Lance can’t focus on anything other than kissing Keith, and he whispers as much as he pulls his head back to let his lips brush against Keith’s hair. He separates them a bit more, kissing across Keith’s forehead and down the side of his face, peppering kisses along the ridge of his nose and his cheeks and his chin before letting his head drop to nose his way down Keith’s neck to his collarbone.

Keith lets out another laugh, breathy and simple and so full of joy that Lance melts for the second time tonight. He sees stars, sees fireworks, but that’s not right -- the fireworks aren’t for another hour or so at least, right? And yet he sees them anyway.

He can hear the sound of the music from the rides, the screams from the crowd and from the carnies at the booths, the sound of his own heartbeat and the roaring of the blood in his ears, Keith’s laugh, Keith’s laugh, Keith’s  _ laugh _ and his sighs and his hums and Lance’s name on his tongue-

Lance thinks, for a moment, that his name coming from Keith’s mouth may be the sweetest sound he’s ever heard.

And he drowns himself in it. He drowns himself in the sound, in the taste, in the perfection of the moment and he can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t focus on anything other than  _ Keith _ and the fact that he can’t feel his legs. He isn’t sure what it’s from - from the ferris wheel? Or the kiss? - but he doesn’t care.

He doesn’t care at all, because he could die right now from complete lack of oxygen and he wouldn’t mind in the least if it meant dying happy and laughing and  _ loved _ , kissing Keith here by the generators underneath the lights of the ferris wheel.

He lives, though, and Keith pulls back laughing, eyes crinkled at the edges and his cheeks flushed. They’re both breathing like they’ve just run to the ends of the Earth, their hair sticking out in ridiculous angles and their lips bruised with each other’s affection, but neither of them can find the heart to complain.

If Lance could make one moment last forever, he would choose this one without a second thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Aaron Burr voice]  
> Ladies and gentlemen.  
> The moment you've been waiting for.
> 
> ((written by Maddy))


	16. Announcement! (Don't worry, this dumb fic ain't dead)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi there! This little note is only going to be temporarily up until we get things sorted out and post the next thing we have for you.

Hey there, it's Muffin. It's been like, what, six months? We've been slacking. Well, more like busy. Maddy and I have had a lot going on, what with school and finding jobs and I actually just finished a summer class. Sorry it's been a little while, and that this update is a little overdue (and that is isn't even really a chapter, yet). But the main point of this little update was to just remind you that this story and our band geeks are not dead or discontinued! A lot of the reason why we haven't been posting is because, well, there has been a lot of work on chapters to come later in the story and we've been failing to actually work on the part of the story that comes immediately after the carnival scene in the most recent _(_ _recent)_ chapter. Literally, we have a big plan even after what you've already read, and I myself got so excited about it that there are more than a couple chapters with many thousands of words each. I'm not letting that go to waste, for sure. These boys are too good to let go of, I'm pretty attached. Catching up with some friends and talking with Maddy again will help get all of this sorted out, and whatever way we, on the creator's side of things, decide to go, there will still be more to come. I'd get some asks on my tumblr wondering if we've quit, and it's really heartwarming to know some of y'all are still curious and enjoying this thing. A lot of work goes into it. So anyway, this was just a crude little note to those guys and to anyone who needed the reminder. We're coming back soon, promise! Thank you!

**Author's Note:**

> Find us on Tumblr and yell over these nerds with us:  
> [Maddy](http://www.fairietailed.tumblr.com)  
> [Muff](http://themuffintitan.tumblr.com)
> 
> Or on Twitter  
> [Maddy](http://www.twitter.com/fairietailed)


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